


Heavy Thrusters

by Maybemightbe



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Bad Jokes, Businessman Reyes, But Scott Secretly Loves it, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Future Fic, M/M, Married Couple, Miscommunication, POV Multiple, Porn With Plot, Reyes is Super Cheesy, Slash, Space Husbands, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:39:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybemightbe/pseuds/Maybemightbe
Summary: Rich, angsty space husbands.  Ten years after the battle for Meridian, tensions between Kadara and the Initiative threaten to boil over at any moment. When Scott loses his position as Pathfinder, in part due to his relationship with Reyes, he realizes he doesn't actually know who he is without the title.A booster rocket rumbles over their apartment, trajectory locked on some deadweight ship in orbit. Whether it will push it home or further out into space is anybody's guess.





	1. Scott

**Author's Note:**

> Boy I sure hope this fandom is still alive because this is gonna be a long one, friends. My God. Join me on Tumblr (by the same name) for a fanart binge.
> 
> I'm looking for a casual Beta, by the way, if anyone's got good typo-hunting eagle eyes.

Scott knows the exact moment he turns 32.  
  
**Happy birthday, Pathfinder,** SAM says at 00:00, Kadara Standard Time, never a second off its clock. Scott's omni-tool has been buzzing with well wishes for several hours already, as midnights come and go across the cluster. But if Scott gets to pick his age (anywhere between 32 and 647) then he should get to pick which planet it's officially counted on.

Cora's email had come in first, as always, when the sun was barely up the day before. Then Lexi's ("PS: keep up with those back stretches I showed you") and Liam's long list of _attached media_. Jaal doesn't really understand the importance of specific birth dates ("Is this not very tedious?"), but he'd sent along a few poems anyway and a third invitation to visit. The others from his old crew were on stations set to Heleus Universal, a day behind or just plain forgetful.

Scott rolls over in bed, his back on worn sheets, an arm resting in the cold space beside him. There's room for three on the king-size mattress but only one pillow in use.

"I'm not the Pathfinder anymore, SAM," he says to the empty room. He’s been retired for just under a year, ever since the remaining kett fled out of long-distance scanning range and the Initiative entered _Phase Three_.

("It's time for babies now, Ryder," Tann had said, not looking up from his desk monitor. "Not Blasto.")

But SAM still uses the old title sometimes. Maybe it's sentimental. Maybe that means Scott is, too.  
  
He should be asleep. Normally he would be, the constant hum of heavy thrusters over their apartment in Kadara Port knocking him out well before midnight. Scott had insisted that they put floor-to-ceiling windows and a skylight in the bedroom, despite the security risk and morning sun— the sight and feel of passing airships is the only familiar view Scott's ever had, after all. If he doesn’t count Sara.

(Reyes had always been more inclined towards secret underground caves and backroom club dungeons than "human aquariums, Scott." But he'd paid for the windows all the same.)

Tonight, the sky outside isn't quite black enough; not the deadly vacuum that it should be. Scott's feet itch and his back aches and he's been going to bed alone for over a month.

Scott’s omni-tool beeps from the bedside table with an incoming vidcall from _Pyjak,_ and he has to squint against the white light that floods the room when the connection opens. It's daytime wherever Sara is ( **Voeld** , SAM supplies) and she grins at him from behind comically thick snow goggles.  
  
"Happy birthday, little bro." She greets, voice peppered with static. Her Alliance-issue cold climate hat hides the eyebrow wiggle he knows she's giving him. "I'm not interrupting something, am I? You look like you're in bed."  
  
"No," Scott replies, rubbing the two-day stubble around his jaw. "I mean, yeah, I'm in bed—but you're not—Happy birthday to you, too."  
  
She looks good. Really good. Her skin is flushed and tan; voice strong. The lines around her mouth trace constant smiles, deepening every year since the Initiative started approving non-essential research projects.

“How's the dig going?” he asks, knowing this will keep the conversation off of himself for a while.

“It's incredible! You won't believe how much we've already found." A drill starts up somewhere in the distance, jarring the visual feed for a second, and she raises her voice to be heard. "Amal thinks there might be a whole city preserved under the ice sheet, just like the Prothean ruins on Mars.”

Their mother used to tell them about the first Mars expeditions as bedtime stories on the Citadel— how one little misstep and a cave-in changed everything for humanity.

“Wow,” Scott tries, not at all matching her enthusiasm. She'd always been so enthralled by those stories, even as a kid. Scott usually dozed until the second act, when the Turians showed up and their parents were both called to war.

Sara got the life she'd always wanted in Andromeda, knee-deep in ancient artifacts. Scott has to look away from the bright white snow behind her, too painful to look at directly.

"Do you think it's older than remnant?" he asks, studying his hands.

“Probably.” She sounds wistful. “I’ll be dead before we even scratch the surface, though. We have to move so slowly."  
  
"Too bad mom wasn't an Asari," he jokes without thinking. "You could chip away for another thousand years."  
  
Sara's smile falters. They don't talk about their mother much, not since SAM told them that a cure would most likely take over a century to develop. Every birthday the twins share makes a reunion with her less likely.  
  
Scott presses his knuckles into the knot in his back, willing the old ache away.  
  
Sara breaks the silence after a few awkward beats. "You look exhausted."  
  
_From doing what?_ "I'm fine."  
  
"Uh-huh. Is that a grey hair I see?"  
  
Scott flips her his middle finger and she squawks out a laugh.  
  
"Reyes already has a lot of grey," he mutters. "I think it looks great."  
  
Sara snorts. "You're not exactly impartial. Where is he, anyway?"  
  
"Bakker. For the second time this month." He really doesn’t want to talk about it but the words pour out of him anyway. “And before that, Aya and Obayro for three weeks.”

When Sara first met Reyes— juggling three datapads and an angry Salarian banker— she'd made a joke about Scott's Oedipal complex; always chasing guys too busy to make eye contact. Now she only hums in sympathy and leaves it there. They'd both grown up loving someone at a distance; the trick was never wading too far into self pity.

But however busy Alec had been when they were growing up, it doesn’t even begin to compare with Reyes these days.

After the battle for Meridian, most of the civilian personnel still in cryo were released to settle new frontiers, and it took all of two minutes for Reyes to realize that there were more credits to be made supplying new colonies with necessities than smuggling weapons and vintage crap to exiles. The Collective paid their pilots better than the Initiative (which paid nothing), and within four years Reyes had tripled the size of his fleet to fit the growing demand.

By the time Nexus brass took enough notice to get worried, The Collective was already supplying all of the new settlements on Elaaden, Kadara, and Aya. Tann read it as a threat to Initiative control (which, in fairness, it was) and took drastic action, first by choking off Kadara's Helium-3 fuel supplies and jamming their comms, then by demanding that colonists purchase only 'licensed' goods, or else be cut off from their relatives on the Nexus.

When that didn't work, they started hunting down and arresting Collective pilots on desertion charges, even sending military patrols into Kadaran airspace.

Reyes’ friendship with Evfra was all that saved them from a second, bloodier conflict. After three months of escalating threats, the Resistance armada came to dock in Kadara Port, flying straight through a looming blockade of Initiative fighters. Clearly outgunned, the Nexus made a grudging retreat—out of Kadara, out of Aya, and eventually even pulling out of their colonies on Elaaden.

The Collective isn't just a cave-dwelling smugglers' operation anymore. They basically control half the fucking cluster.

"Earth to Ryder," Sara calls through the vid link.

Scott starts. “Hey, sorry.”

“It's okay,” she smiles easily. “I have to go though. Talk later?”

He thinks she might be lying, giving him an excuse to hang up and brood on his own time. “Definitely,” he replies.

“Love you,” he adds quickly, meaning it. She says it back and cuts the connection, bright snow leaving blind spots in his vision. Wherever he looks, her white-rimmed silhouette fills the room.

Scott had tried to stay neutral throughout the whole ordeal, but his relationship with Reyes had never been a secret. Tann stopped including him in leadership discussions once the arrests started, scheduling the Tempest for back-to-back outer-rim milk runs and unnecessary quarantines. With half a galaxy between the ship and Kadara, even emails had a hard time getting through.

The day before Evfra finally agreed to intervene, Reyes sent Scott a letter—a long one—with the decryption key to his personal safe attached at the end.

Scott was halfway to Kadara, burning the rest of their fuel on a one-way FTL, by the time the news broke that it was over.

It was pretty damn clear where his loyalties lay after that. Once enough time passed for it not to appear political, Scott was ordered to retire from Pathfinder duties. His crew scattered, his ship repurposed. He hasn’t been back on the Nexus since.

An hour after Sara's call, Scott's just barely skimming the surface of a dream when he hears the front door unlocking.  
  
He can't see the door around the corner, but he knows the routine that follows by heart. Reyes takes his time in the entryway, not bothering with the lights, pulling off his boots and placing them neatly to the side. There's the sound of a zipper and sliding fabric as Reyes pulls off his flight jacket and hangs it up, then a pause as he unbuttons his collar and runs his hands over his hair in the mirror. 

He must think Scott's asleep because his steps are extra quiet as he pads across the apartment.

When he reaches their bedroom and sees Scott looking up at him, naked under the sheets, fully awake, he stops and stares. Dead center on target. Goosebumps rise in a wave over Scott's arms and down the back of his neck.

A cargo ship takes off outside their reinforced windows, fire to the ground, letting in a tight band of light that sweeps over Reyes' framed form in the doorway, cresting over high cheekbones and dipping around the scar above his mouth. _Five weeks._

Reyes doesn’t budge until Scott reaches a hand out into the empty space between them and beckons.  
  
He straightens and obeys, crossing the room in two long strides. He catches Scott’s outstretched palm and kneels by the side of the bed. “Happy birthday,” he breathes, kissing the inside of Scott’s wrist.

Solid grey streaks cut through Reyes' hair at the temples like landing strips. _They really do suit him_ , Scott thinks, running his fingers through them. _No matter what Sara says._

Up close, he looks exhausted and smells like jet fuel.  
  
"Did you fly a shuttle all the way from Bakker?" Scott asks, every nerve in his body warming as Reyes’ kisses move up his arm. It takes 19 hours to travel between the two planets without FTL, grueling to do alone, and when they’d spoken that morning Reyes had definitely been on the ground.  
  
"Yes. And I would have flown twice that just to see you from the doorway." Reyes leans in to press their lips together, bringing his hand to squeeze the back of Scott’s neck. The cold metal of his ring pressing into Scott's skin. "And to feel you under my hands."  
  
Scott shivers. “That's so corny.”

“I had a long time to think.” He kisses down Scott’s jaw, fingers brushing over stiff nipples. Scott has to force himself to breath, heart stuttering out of rhythm.

“Oh yeah? About what?”

“You,” Reyes says simply, and stands to strip out of his clothes. Scott barely has time to appreciate the hard angles of his husband’s body before Reyes is pulling back the sheets and climbing into bed on top of him, settling between Scott’s open legs. He leans in close and they kiss again, slowly, deliberately, and it leaves Scott moaning into Reyes mouth. Their hips grind together once, twice, Reyes hard against him.

"Fuck," Scott groans, way too close already.

Reyes breathes in sharply then slides down to nuzzle his face into Scott’s stomach, chin tapping Scott’s bobbing erection.

“H-how did your meetings go?” Scott croaks out, absurdly.

Reyes halts for a second, then mutters a low “Boring,” before returning to task. He licks down Scott's side and mouths at his hip, palming Scott’s aching balls and rubbing his inner thigh.

“No r-really. I-I’m curious.”

“After,” comes the muffled reply. The hand on his thigh moves to wrap around the base of his dick, squeezing and teasing with precision, exactly the way Scott likes it. The way he can never do himself.

He can feel himself unspooling, gut first, toes and fingers curling in on themselves.

"W-what abou—ah!” Scott gasps and jerks aside as Reyes bites down hard on his ribs.

Reyes pulls away, crawling back up until his elbows frame Scott’s head, their chests flush, heartbeats hammering together. Even in the partial dark of their bedroom Scott can trace every line and scar on that face. He searches for new ones, just in case.

_Five weeks._

“Scott.”

“What?”

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

Reyes groans and lets his head fall down between his arms in a familiar sign of defeat, hair tickling Scott’s chest. Scott feels savagely, suddenly ecstatic, buzzing with joy and energy. He laughs and squirms against his lover until Reyes raises his face again, expression fondly forlorn.

“I had a whole plan, Ryder,” he complains. “The best birthday blowjob of your life.”

Scott grins. “Hey, don’t let me stop you.”

Reyes rolls his eyes. “I have a better idea,” he says, pushing away to sit back against his heels. “Roll over.”

Scott obliges with a sloppy wink, twisting against the sheets onto his stomach with his legs spread. Reyes chuckles and gently guides his knees back together, maneuvering to sit on Scott’s upper thighs. A moment later, Scott hears the telltale snaps of a bottle opening and closing.

Two calloused, oil-slick hands come to rest against the small of his back, pressing down hard on either side of his spine.

Scott breathes out a long _oh_ as Reyes kneads into taut muscles, thumbs moving in slow independent circles. He liquifies into the mattress, chest heavy and deflating.

A comfortable silence stretches out between them, enough time for Reyes to work his way over Scott’s back and shoulders four times, hands warm over old scars.

“My meetings went well,” Reyes says eventually, voice even and quiet.

“Mmm,” Scott manages. “On Bakker.” He can't remember any specific details; if he ever knew them to begin with.

“Yes.” Reyes pauses to spread more lotion over his hands. “The planet has enough Helium-3 to power every ship in the cluster for decades, but the only available mining outposts are controlled by three competing gangs. Production would be more… efficient under one central owner.”

Scott smirks. “I wonder who might be willing to help them with that.”

“Believe it or not, Tann had the same thought. He even sent a lackey along to outbid us.” Reyes finds the usual spot on Scott’s back and works it methodically, pulling and stretching the knot into submission. “But I knew what his budget was from the beginning—I’ve never seen a Turian look so confused.”

“I’d rather have seen Tann’s reaction,” Scott grumbles, though it’s hard to muster any real negativity with Reyes' hands rubbing him down. "How much did you end up paying them?”

“Sixty million credits for the rigs and tillers. Another five in bribes."

Scott lets out a low whistle and Reyes smacks his arm. "We'll make ten times that in fuel savings alone by the end of next year," he says. "Though Keema may be angry with me for a while. There were cheaper means available.”

Scott doesn't need that clarified. “She can't stay mad for long,” he sighs into the pillow. “You got what you wanted, after all.”

Reyes hums. “I did.” He leans down to kiss the back of Scott’s neck. “Everything I ever wanted.”

A booster rocket rumbles overhead, trajectory locked to intercept some deadweight ship in orbit; to push it home or further out to space. Its power vibrates down through the walls and into Scott's bones. They resonate in chorus, submitting absolutely.

Reyes comes down fully, chest flush to Scott's back, and carefully maneuvers them until they're lying on their sides like spoons.

“I missed you,” Scott mumbles, already half asleep. He doesn’t dream.


	2. Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Reyes keeps his promises_

Reyes has always been good at predicting the weather.

It was the first special thing he noticed about himself, when he was eight years old and still living in his mother’s house. A concrete one-bedroom habitat three miles south of an iron mine on Hades V. His father had been a miner until the day he died; falling drunk down a maintenance shaft with his harness tied wrong.

They couldn't stay in company housing after that unless they both worked, so his mother took a job stripping toxic batteries from the mine's ancient sat-comm tower while Reyes got to crawl through the communal recycler, scavenging for parts. It was dangerous enough work that they didn’t get spaced or sold off to Batarians, though according to his sausage-faced boss they were "toeing a pretty fine fucking line" all the same.

Miners never noticed the weather, eyes on the ground, digging in the dark. Their wives and children didn’t notice, either. Too worried about the long-distance broadcasts going down for a third time that week and missing another episode of _Blasto: Citadel Spectre_. Reyes hated Blasto. Hated coming home smelling like chemical decomp and burned fingertips to some actor getting all the glory on a dumb, flickering box.

(Decades later he would watch an old rerun with Scott curled up in his lap, numb after a close call on Eos. He appreciates, now, that the show exists to be mindless.)

Reyes was never going to be a miner. He kept his eyes on the sky, resolute, and learned to read the signs. Stale air brought heat waves. Black clouds meant rain. Bits of trash and dirt would twist into little airborne spirals in the hours before a sandstorm, trapping him inside with his mother and her own turbulent moods.

He learned to read the warning signs on humans the hard way.

On Kadara, Reyes wakes up with his nose buried in Scott’s hair, body curved around Scott’s back with legs overlapping. He waits for his dream to fade and his heartbeat to settle, low-altitude sirens still ringing in his ears. Scott smells like their apartment; shared soap and deodorant. The ever-present hint of eezo clings to Scott like sweat, warning Reyes not to startle him awake.

Though he’d be surprised if Scott could even Lift his pillow with how exhausted he looks.

He’d seen the darkness under Scott’s eyes and felt the weight loss with his hands that night, but the mess in the apartment is only obvious in daylight. Piles of clothes litter the floor, dirty dishes sit abandoned in haphazard stacks, datapads wink their low-charge warnings from every other visible surface. Reyes knows these signs, too, and he tightens his hold on the man snoring in his arms.

In the Alliance, years and light years away from Hades V, Reyes' flight instructors taught him how to rely on pressure gauges and radar; instruments that translated the weather patterns he already knew into symbols on a dash.

When Reyes threw his blues and dogtags into an incinerator on Omega, his only regret was losing the precision of those tools.

“SAM,” Reyes calls quietly into the room.

The SAM node on Scott’s desk flickers to life. “Yes, Reyes,” it says, voice smooth and expectant.

The only other time he’s seen Scott living in his own filth like this was in the month after the Archon fell, when Sara’s health kept deteriorating and Scott wouldn’t eat or sleep or leave their father’s room.

“Did something happen while I was gone?” he asks carefully.

“Nothing of note.”

“And everything is okay with Sara? The rest of the team?”

“All of Scott’s former crewmates are doing well. Healthy per our last check-in" SAM replies. "Sara is on Voeld. Our latest interaction was several hours ago.”

“What about Ellen?”

“Ellen Ryder is still in stable cryostasis aboard the Hyperion.”

“Okay.” Reyes chews the inside of his cheek, unsure of how to broach the subject more directly.

“We are both very happy to see you,” SAM says, apropos of nothing.

There’s a snort from the body beside him. “Quit gossiping,” Scott chides, voice still thick with sleep. He rolls over in Reyes’ arms until they’re face to face.

Reyes isn't sure how much Scott overheard, so he plays it safe. “You know it’s rude to eavesdrop on a private conversation,” he jokes.

“Oh, was it private?” Scott smirks. “Pardon me, I’ll just disconnect from my own brain, then.”

“Yes, that would be preferable," Reyes replies. "I will reconnect you when the time is right.”

“What a gentleman. And how long will this secret conversation take?”

“Hmm," Reyes pretends to consider. "Well you know SAM is so chatty these days...”

“I am not,” SAM interjects. Scott snickers then really starts to laugh, shaking their whole bed. Reyes watches, bemused, and gives a mental high-five to the AI. When Scott sobers his blue eyes are shining, closer than they were before.

“You’ll take good care of my body?” he whispers, grinning.

Reyes’ dick twitches. “Of course.”

“Of _course_. Any last words before I leave you two alone?”

“I love you.”

It comes out too earnest for the playful mood, but Reyes takes his cue from Scott’s wide-eyed look and flushing cheeks, the grip on his shoulder tightening ever so slightly.

“I love you,” he says again, gathering Scott even tighter and closing the short distance between them. Scott deepens the kiss eagerly, sweeping a tongue into Reyes’ mouth, hand tugging lightly at his hair, encouraging. It’s ecstasy and Reyes' body responds so fast it’s impressive, even for him, but he has a promise to keep so he pulls away.

Scott whines like a teenager and Reyes carries that train of thought down with him as he crawls under the sheets and pushes Scott’s knees apart. Scott is thick and hard and Reyes wets his lips, gets in close, breath hot over shivering muscle.

He presses an open mouthed kiss to the base of Scott's dick, feels Scott’s pulse stagger and breath hitch. He loves doing this in the morning, Scott's voice rough and loud with off-guard pleasure. _Talk to me, cariño._

“God,” Scott croaks. “Reyes—”

Reyes moans, tongue dragging slowly over Scott’s slit, already sticky. He chases the taste, teasing and sucking until Scott’s thighs are quivering around him.

He takes a hand to his own erection, tugging in time with Scott's panting, stuttering pleas. He swallows the head, setting a slow enough pace to draw out and savor every desperate noise he knows Scott can make above him.

He speeds up when Scott's hands find his hair again, pulling at the roots, words a string of encouraging _fuckmefuckplease_ s. He palms Scott’s balls, dives down for a deepthroat and it’s showtime, Scott rolling upward off the mattress, coming hot and hard, gasping beautiful nonsense.

Reyes keeps his mouth where it is, swallowing what he can before his own climax hits.

When he descends, the fingers in his hair have turned gentle, coaxing him upward. He presses a parting kiss to the pulse in Scott’s groin before obliging, rising to flop down beside his droopy-eyed husband.

"Birthday blowjob, huh?" Scott says breathily, heart still thudding visibly in his chest.

"You got it."

"How many more of those am I entitled to today?"

Reyes huffs and stretches his legs and arms out at 45 degree angles like a starfish. "I think thirty-two is only fair."

Scott bats Reyes' arm out of his face. "That's a lot for one day. How about I get them in installments over the next couple of weeks?"

The question is so simple, Reyes' post-orgasm brain almost doesn't catch on. Luckily for both of them he's a master strategist who can usually tell when dangerous things are being loaded in his direction.

"I don't plan on leaving again anytime soon," he says, keeping his tone light. "If you'd like to work out a schedule."

A tiny smile is the only confirmation Reyes gets that this is the right answer. Scott hums. "Good. I'll have my secretary call your secretary."

Reyes catches a whiff of his own two-day old stink. "Shower time," he says, slapping a hand down on Scott's thigh to drum up some reciprocal enthusiasm. "I smell like cockpit."

Scott rolls out of bed. "Yeah, in both senses of the word."

Reyes lunges to slap him on the ass, but Scott is too quick and dodges him easily with some sixth sense hip swivel and sashay that Reyes chases all the way to the bathroom.

Scott is an extremely handsy and helpful showering companion. He's thorough around the groin area especially, which Reyes can't handle for very long after so many weeks of doing the cleaning part under cold water and the jerking off part alone.

When they're toweling off afterward, Scott rubs his jaw and announces that he has decided to shave. Reyes isn't sure why this is important but can feel Scott hovering, waiting for some kind of response, so he leans over and bites Scott's chin. "Alright," he says. "Goodbye, little beard." Then he grabs a towel for his shoulders and leaves Scott to it.

As expected, Reyes' omni-tool is making a huge racket in the bedroom. It hasn't been off his arm for this long since the last time he was home, and he half expects to find it melting a hole through the titanium floor.

Reyes straps it back on warily and flips through his messages at random.

He starts with the most ominous file, a raw data transfer from his Bakker survey team. It contains, among other mind-numbing particulars: orbital forecasts, financial records, meeting transcripts, and detailed blueprints for each mining station. It will take him all week to comb through it all, unless he does the smart thing and gets SAM involved. He makes a mental note to find an opportune moment to ask Scott for permission.

There are a few status reports from Crux's team on Meridian; the most recent of which says that everything is going according to plan, so Reyes files the older ones away for later review.

Next, he notices an inexplicably large purchase order for five new waste disposal units from a small colony on Elaadan. He checks their file to see if they've somehow quadrupled in size recently (they haven't), or if, more likely, their hydraulic generator is due for major repairs and they're trying to  cannibalize cheaper machinery to replace what's breaking down.

The first things to wear out on most hydraulic generators are the massive flat-head pumps, which are expensive and a real pain in the ass to fix because they must always be purchased from licensed manufacturers. If some enterprising moron were to swap them out for pumps of the wrong size (like, say, the slightly smaller ones used in waste disposal units) and turn it on, then razor-sharp little torpedos of highly pressurized water would escape from around the pumps' housing and cause serious bodily harm to anyone standing nearby.

The moron in question (now almost certainly dead) would have also destroyed six perfectly good machines.

After some digging, Reyes confirms that the colony's generator is over four years old and that they've never purchased any of the necessary maintenance equipment. He cancels their waste disposal order and forwards all of this to one of his smarter agents on Elaadan with a note asking her to "please get rid of this colony's idiot engineer."

He doesn't specify how because he is _not a micromanager_.

He goes straight for an email from Evfra after that, feeling a bit desperate for some intelligent conversation. It's a short note of congratulations on the Bakker deal and a request to speak over vidcall.

Reyes double checks his inbox for anything from Keema (nothing), then opens an encrypted channel to Evfra's private office. He heads into the kitchen to make some coffee while he waits for it to connect.

Evfra's digitized upper half materializes over the counter. "Shena," he greets warmly. "I'm glad you—" He trails off.

Reyes glances over to check that they're still connected. Evfra's projection blinks at him.

"You are naked."

_Ah._

There's only ever one way to play it when you're caught with your pants down. Reyes shrugs, fiddling with the coffee machine presets. "Would you prefer that I put some clothes on?"

Evfra harumphs. "I do not care about your genitals," he says gruffly, then clears his throat. "I wish to congratulate you on your successful purchase."

"And you want to talk through our deal again."

The bluntness might have offended someone else, but Evfra cares for formalities about as much as a lump of coal does. "We agreed that half of the first year's shipments would go to Aya in exchange for five cargo loaders."

"I remember." The machine beeps a few times and begins to purr, pushing out two thin streams of coffee. Cream and sugar premixed for Reyes; black tar poison for Scott.

"Good. How long before you're at full production?"

There's no way to answer that accurately and Evfra knows it. "I won't give you a firm schedule until I can stand by it, but at least a month."

Evfra disappears and reappears over the dish rack as he paces around his office. "A month might be too long to wait, Vidal."

"We can't afford to make any mistakes," Reyes reminds him. "They'll be looking for any opportunity to sabotage us."

This is the closest they've come in a while to speaking frankly about what's really at stake— independence from the Initiative, as quickly and entirely as possible.

With a continuous supply of their own Helium-3, the Collective and the Resistance won't need to rely on the Initiative for fuel. The miserable little trickle the Nexus agreed to sell them every year as part of their ongoing peace treaty is just enough to run FTL drives on a dozen or so Collective ships, and they're fast approaching the point where demand will outstrip their ability to provide.

It's just the opening the Initiative needs to regain a foothold on Collective planets. Tann isn't a very good tactician, but even he will have figured that out.

"Jesus!" Scott yelps as he enters the kitchen, totally in the buff.

Evfra stops pacing to acknowledge him, torso blooming out of a dirty cereal bowl. "Pathfinder," he greets. "You are bleeding."

Scott's hands simultaneously fly to cover his lower half and to a small cut on his throat. He flushes a deep, attractive red from his shoulders to his ears. "I—Yes. Thank you. Hello, Evfra."

He does a double take when he sees that Reyes is also, for some reason, still nude. "Reyes?"

Reyes hands him a freshly brewed cup of his preferred military-grade swill and hopes for the best. "The shave looks good."

Perhaps sensing that his friend is in trouble, Evfra repeats his earlier assertion, "I do not care about either of your genitals."

Scott nods his head a few times and chugs the entire cup of piping hot sewage. Reyes gags inwardly.

"Evfra and I are discussing the future of Andromeda's fuel economy," he says.

Scott hands him back the empty cup. "Uh-huh. Are we optimistic?"

Reyes replies "Yes," right as Evfra says "Optimism is for fools." So Scott has to make up his own mind.

"I'm going to go put some clothes on," he decides, turning to leave.

Reyes watches Scott exit the kitchen and wonders idly if that's the first human ass Evfra's ever seen. _It'll all be downhill from here,_  he thinks, giving Scott a generous once-over.

"I will leave you two alone," Evfra says. "You clearly have other things to discuss."

Reyes turns back to his spectral business partner. "What?"

The Angaran doesn't respond, just winks out of existence.

Reyes sighs and scrubs his face. He takes his own delicious coffee into the bedroom where Scott is bustling around, yanking the sheets off of their bed and throwing them on top of an enormous mound of clothes.

"Sorry about that," Reyes offers, thinking maybe he should have come baring another mug of garbage.

Scott doesn't stop moving. "It's okay. I mean— that was pretty weird, but it's just Evfra."

 _Just the commander of an entire alien civilization_ , Reyes thinks wryly. But if there's anyone in Andromeda who's earned the right to be flippant about galactic leadership, it's Scott Ryder.

Scott launches a dirty pair of socks at his laundry pile with a spark of biotic blue trailing behind it and the whole damn thing looks about ready to topple over and drown them.

Reyes shuffles uneasily.

He remembers falling in love with Scott the first time; how it had felt a lot like ripping the cord on an ejector seat, all sweet relief and blind faith. There was never any rust around those seat cushion rockets—someone on the ground was always paying close attention, checking that they worked.

Scott's left hand is buried under their mattress, digging for who knows what, but Reyes doesn’t need to see the ring to know it's still on Scott's finger. Or to remember what he promised when he put it there.

Routine maintenance, that's what it all comes down to. And a bit of tact.

"What's the matter with you?" Reyes blurts out.

Scott doesn't answer for a while and Reyes thinks maybe he's blown it, but then Scott finally stops short and drops like a bag of bricks onto the edge of the bed. He rubs at his knees, studying the floor with a frustrated scowl.

"I don't know," he says slowly. "I think…I just feel so bored all the time."

"Bored?" Reyes edges a bit closer.

"Yeah, ever since the Tempest—" he halts.

Reyes takes a seat beside him and waits.

Scott continues after a minute. "I want to be out there," he gestures out the window angrily, "doing what I used to do. But what the hell was that? Chasing Kett and pissing off the remnant, running errands for Tann? I never knew where any of it was going. There was never any plan, at least not my plan. And now—I've never had to work without a team or a structure. It was all my dad's—I don't know what I'm supposed to do or where to start."

Reyes sips his coffee. He's not particularly surprised by any of this, but hearing Scott describe himself as not having a team makes Reyes want to punch himself in the face. He reaches over and takes Scott's hand.

"We start by getting you out of this apartment," he says. "And go from there."

Scott breathes heavily out his nose and closes his eyes, squeezing Reyes' fingers between his own.

"Sounds good," he says, visibly steeling himself. He plasters an entirely unconvincing smile on that Reyes recognizes as Scott's expression for ' _Despite being grievously wounded, I am perfectly capable of continuing on this highly dangerous mission. Thank you for checking, comrade.'_

Reyes is less sure, but he plays along anyway as Scott gets dressed and brushes his teeth.

A half hour later, they're standing by the front door. Reyes is pulling on his boots when he suddenly remembers something very important.

"Oh, can I borrow SAM for some analysis later this afternoon? Just a bit of number crunching. Maybe a hack. Or two hacks."

Scott rolls his eyes and leaves without him.


	3. Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Scott melts into his armor like an old krogan_

There are two kinds of people who still use the word "slums" when describing Kadara Port's ground level. The first kind are aging pirates and red sand smugglers, lusting after the predictable addict economy of Kadara’s early settlements. The second kind are old-school Initiative loyalists; law and order enforcers who used to fly in grudgingly with stacks of arrest warrants and leave with new scars and bruises. Most of those haven’t bothered returning since the ceasefire, muttering _good riddance, fucking traitors_.

A lot has changed since then.

Scott and Reyes step off the elevator and are immediately swallowed into the mayhem of the marketplace. The ground level is a maze of narrow shops stretching out ahead of them, from the portside cliffs to the towering city walls. Excited off-world shoppers and merchants of every species bustle around them, buying and selling everything from datapads to body paint (at extremely generous discounts, if you believe any of the salesmen).

A group of Angaran children rushes through the crowd, laughing and screaming, absorbed in some game. Scott barely has time to step out of the way as they barrel passed, heading into a side street cut deep into the mountain. He searches the mob of shoppers expecting to find some terrified adult giving chase, but there’s no one.

**You have a new email from Gil, Pathfinder.**

Scott smiles. He’d been wondering when this particular birthday message would come in. Reyes has already wandered off, deeply absorbed in conversation with a Salarian cheese vendor. They’re hunched over a dish of sample-size cubes, Reyes studying each one like they’re pieces on a chessboard.

Scott opens the email and goes immediately for the attached image. It’s a family portrait, of sorts, with Gil and Jil in the middle with their three kids, Dian, Laura, and Molly gathered around. Dian is almost nine, long-limbed with flaming red hair. He has an utterly too-serious look on his face, scowling directly into the camera.

Scott had been with Gil when Dian was born, sitting on a bed in the Tempest crew quarters with a pack of cards between them and no idea that Jil had gone into labor two-and-a-half months early. Gil was still working full-time on the ship; they hadn’t even found his replacement yet when the news came in. Scott had set course for Prodromos immediately, but Gil refused to take early leave when they arrived, even after meeting his newborn son.

“You need me here,” Gil hedged. “I’ll schedule in some visits between missions.”

Scott hadn’t handled that conversation very well. Too achingly familiar. Vetra had to force her way between them, coming in off a spacewalk with half her vacuum suit still on. It wasn't until Scott caught his reflection in her helmet that he deflated, glad he didn’t have to look her in the eyes as the fury left him. Gil stormed off with a black eye Scott didn’t remember giving him.

“You’re not supposed to know what you’re doing,” Scott told him over a bottle of some Kadaran bootleg a week later. They were still docked in Prodromos, Scott refusing to leave with Gil still on board. He'd kept his impatience to himself, and Gil had finally lifted the silent treatment long enough to invite him down to the ship's hangar bay _to have it out_. “You’re just supposed to be there.”

Gil groaned. “It’s not that simple.”

“Okay, yeah, leaving would be a lot simpler,” Scott huffed. “But you know I’m talking from experience here. It makes a difference, being there, even if you’re fucking up all the time.”

Gil swiped the bottle but didn’t drink. He didn’t say anything for a long time, either, just breathing in and out and flexing his hands. It sounded like he was grinding his teeth. “How can you be so right and so unhelpful at the same time?”

Scott smirked. “It’s the politician in me.”

“I didn’t know Reyes had detachable parts,” Gil retorted, giving Scott’s ass a searching look.

Scott thumped him in the arm, soliciting a dry laugh.

“Is that how you’re making the long-distance thing work?” Gil asked, dodging another jab. “It explains so much!”

Scott snorted and stole back the drink, draining it and wishing his face would cool the hell down. “Weren’t we talking about you a second ago?”

“Uh-huh.”

They fell back into silence, Scott studying the empty glass. Looking at it now, vision bleary, he wouldn’t have any way of knowing one way or another if it had ever been full. Only his memories of having had it made the liquor real. His stomach roiled.

“My dad wasn’t around much when I was little,” he ventured, trusting Gil to understand.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have any regrets, not really, but it would have been nice to have a real relationship with him, even a bad one.” The edge in his voice surprised him. “He was an important guy though—saving the galaxy. A symbol for humanity. It was a good excuse when I was old enough to get it.”

Gil slumped. “Guess I can’t say the same thing about my job.”

“No. You can’t.” Scott waited for Gil to meet his eyes before continuing. “You’re a damn good engineer, Gil. The best I’ll ever have. And I’m ordering you to stay here.”

They both knew the order wasn’t real, but Gil’s shoulders twitched at Scott’s tone, straightening— maybe—before Gil caught himself. He might not have had the same military training as Cora or Scott, but the Tempest was a warship and there had been a few years back then, back in the heat of everything, where respecting your CO was a matter of life or death. Scott grew up with that voice barking orders at him. He didn’t envy Gil having to learn how to use it. Maybe he never would, and his kid would grow up happy.

In the marketplace, Scott zooms in on each of their smiling faces. Laura is seven, standing next to her brother, head ducked slightly away from the camera but eyes wide. Molly must be four, gaze slightly off-center, baring her teeth at someone behind the camera. When Scott met her for the first time last year, she’d chased him all over the house giggling madly, and when she’d finally collapsed, claiming both of her legs had turned to jello, he’d agreed to carry her everywhere on his shoulders.

A hand slides against the small of Scott's back, Reyes coming up beside him. He’s still standing in the middle of the busy thoroughfare, Molly’s face filling his screen. Reyes kisses the skin behind his ear and Scott sighs, leaning into it. Reyes gives his hip a parting squeeze and drifts off again into the crowd.

Scott closes the photo and reads the email slowly. It’s nothing very exciting, just a simple birthday message and some family updates. Gil never rejoined the Tempest crew after Dian was born; the first of their group to move on. He’d fucked up a lot, just like Scott had warned, and Scott used to always hear about it. Weird little half emails—Gil punch drunk from the lack of sleep, freaking out over some mistake or another before passing out mid-sentence. But the messages slowed to a crawl by Dian's first birthday, then a once-a-month _how’s it going?_ like Scott was the one Gil needed to check up on, not the other way around. 

Scott mutes his omni-tool and goes hunting for Reyes. He finds him a few streets over inside a woodworker's shop, looking over a hand-carved backgammon set with inlaid charillyon scales. The white markers shift from vibrant blue to yellow as he tips it into the sun. They catch eyes for a moment and Reyes smiles easily, returning to the set when Scott doesn’t come any closer.

Scott wanders over to a table full of children's toys and picks up a beautifully painted wooden Manta. It’s made of interlocking joints that ripple loosely in his hands like a snake. It would make a great gift for Dian, he muses, who loves big, improbably flight-worthy things as much as Gil does.

_When is his birthday?_

**In three months, Pathfinder.**

Scott tucks the Manta under his arm. Of course, this necessitates finding another two toys for Laura and Molly, so Scott spends the next twenty minutes combing through the carvings. He settles easily on a set of wooden riddles for Laura, but he's only met Molly once and has no idea what she's into besides pretending he’s a giant lizard monster. 

 _Do four-year-olds like puzzles?_ he wonders.

He’s not really expecting a response, but SAM nudges him towards a memory. The edges of it feel foreign, not immediately coming into focus the way Scott’s own memories do when the AI replays them. Something of his father’s, then. Scott accepts SAM’s offer, gripping the toys a little harder than necessary. 

The scene only lasts a few seconds. He's sitting at a desk in their old Citadel apartment, a datapad streaming code in his hand. The twins are lying at his feet, totally engrossed in a jigsaw puzzle. The pieces cover half the floor. _How long have I been sitting here?_  He doesn’t even remember them entering the room, but it must have been hours ago. Sara lifts her butt off the carpet and farts, which sets Scott to wild, uncontrollable cackling. The sound grates on him.  _Can't they see that I'm working?_

Scott shakes his head to clear the vision away. Alec had felt so _annoyed_ at his children; at their game, at their laughter. The caustic emotion lingers in Scott’s veins, making him feel nauseous.

**I apologize. I am unable to identify the emotional components of your father’s memories until you have processed them.**

_I know. It's alright, SAM._

He settles on a thousand-piece jigsaw for Molly, the biggest he can find. Maybe he can help her with it, if she can be bribed to sit still.

When he turns away from the table, he catches Reyes staring at him from across the store, hands empty, a wistful sort of look on his face that disappears a second later.

***

The old guardhouse that used to separate the slums from the dangerous wilds beyond has long since been removed. Shops and houses spill out from under the open archway into the rocky planes, where the crisp mountain air mixes with the delicious smells of human and Angaran foods.

Reyes slips an arm around Scott’s waist and guides them towards their favourite spot by the lake. A small cafe with bright green umbrellas and the best parsec pies in Andromeda. Reyes finds them a booth near the back, sliding in across from Scott and bumping their knees together.

Reyes orders for them both, chatting with the Angaran chef like they’ve known each other for years. Scott doesn’t remember ever meeting him before, so he tunes them out, listening instead to the radio playing in the kitchen.

“— _more than five million credits, guaranteed! Boy, I could really use that kind of money, folks. No joke. Next up, The Old Gods’ new hit single Cryo Dreams, coming to you live from the Nexus…_ ”

A soft bass melody comes over the little radio, its old Solaris-tech speakers barely hitting the low notes. It’s a good song though, and Scott can’t help tapping his fingers along to the beat.

“So, who are you buying toys for?” Reyes asks, tone teasing. He gestures to the bag of merchandise next to Scott on the seat. 

“They’re for Gil’s kids,” Scott shrugs. “It’ll be Dian’s tenth birthday in June.”

Reyes nods. “I can have someone deliver them this week, if you’d like.”

Scott’s fingers go still against the table. “Actually, I was thinking of going there myself.” Reyes opens his mouth, a frown beginning to form, but Scott plows through. “I haven’t seen any of them in a long time, Reyes. Too long. Molly probably doesn’t even know who I am.”

“Everyone knows who you are.” Reyes waves a hand dismissively but snaps it back at Scott’s venomous look. “And you vidcall them all the time,” he hedges.

Scott balks. “No, I don’t. And that’s not the same as being around.”

“Now isn’t a good time for you to be in Initiative space.”

“For me, or for your business?”

Reyes scowls. “It can’t be both?”

Their waiter arrives with their pies still steaming from the oven, and Scott takes the brief reprieve to relax his fists. He hadn’t even noticed they were clenched on the table until he’s moving them to make room for the plates. Reyes doesn’t look away from Scott until they’re alone again, the chef moving away quickly at the obvious tension. Scott finally breaks contact to stare out across the water. A group of Salarian children splash and leap through the surf. A few adults lounge nearby, smoking Angaran hash and dozing in the sun. Reyes takes a deep breath.

“Maybe they would enjoy visiting Kadara,” he says carefully. “A vacation. I could send a transport to bring all five of them here.”

It’s a generous offer, but Scott’s seen Reyes negotiate with his rivals too many times for the placating tactic not to burn. “Don’t fucking work me,” he hisses. “Does this have anything to do with what you and Evfra were talking about this morning?”

“You mean our genitals?” Reyes bites back.

Scott doesn’t realize he’s done anything until Reyes’ pie is halfway out the window, a biotic shockwave trailing behind it. It explodes into blue and green streaks against a coral growth in the middle of the lake, drawing yelps from a few tourists. Reyes' face morphs into an impassive mask as he leans slowly back.

“— _the more lively members of the family might wan—rerrkk… czzzrrk… takbrrrzsst_ …”

Scott turns away from Reyes’ expression, face burning, to watch the chef fiddle with the radio’s antenna. The signal crackles a few more times, then goes dead. “Skkut,” the chef curses. He shrugs when he sees Scott looking at him through the door. “The mountain’s daar is blocking the signal,” he says. “Only when the wind blows this way.”

**He is incorrect. It is not the mountain causing this.**

Scott startles. SAM doesn’t usually vocalize its thoughts when Scott’s with Reyes, unless it’s broadcasting to both of them. Reyes is running his hands through his hair, breathing deeply as though he’s trying not to get dragged into something childish.

Scott seizes the distraction. _What do you mean?_

**An electromagnetic pulse has disrupted communications with the Feros satellite tower in Ditaeon.**

_I did that?_ Scott asks, staring wide-eyed at Reyes’ empty plate.

**No, Pathfinder. I believe the signal came from Kurinth's Valley.**

Reyes clears his throat, and Scott hates the knowing look Reyes is giving him, like he knows Scott’s talking to SAM. Like he’s being a good partner. Patiently waiting to dive back into the same argument they’ve been having for ten years. About the Initiative and the treaty and Reyes deciding what’s best for the both of them.

Scott stands up from the table. “I have to go.”

Reyes rolls his eyes. “You’re going to fly to Prodromos  _right now_? Can’t you just trust me for one—”

“I’m not leaving the planet. Jesus! There’s something I need to check out in Kurinth.”

“What? Scott.”

“We’ll talk later.”

Reyes says something else, but Scott’s already crossing the cafe, pulling up SAM’s map of the valley on his omni-tool and exporting the route to his shuttle’s navigation system. It isn’t until he reaches the docks that he remembers the gifts he left behind on his seat. Scott knows Reyes won’t just leave them there out of spite— he’ll collect them up and bring them home. He’ll let the argument slip into oblivion.

There’s nobody to scold him when Scott slams the shuttle doors on his way in.

*** 

Scott’s old armor still fits, and his surprise is immediately embarrassing. It’s not like he’s put on weight or anything, but he half expects the joints to creak as he pulls on the gauntlets, or the chest piece to suffocate him as it settles over his heart. But they don’t. Sitting in the cockpit with his visor pulled down, SAM’s interface scanning the scenery and driving the shuttle, Scott melts into his metal shell like a krogan.

The autopilot takes him deep into the Kurinth Badlands. The valley still carries that nickname, despite most of the pirates having been cleared from the area. A couple of communities tried to make use of the old shipping container buildings left behind, but the constant risk of land mines and abandoned traps kept most settlers from getting comfortable. The odd group stayed behind though, enjoying the isolation and notoriety.

They stop and hover outside an Initiative-standard white steel habitat, tucked up against a cliff face and invisible from every other angle. Scott feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention as he leaves the shuttle. The sensors in his armor pick up the spike in biotic-laced sweat, and his shell releases a quick dose of coolant, anticipating a fight. Accommodating him.

**I am not reading any life signs from within the building, Pathfinder.**

_Okay._ Scott leaves his gun holstered as he approaches the habitat. The door is wide open. An Asari lies sprawled on the floor, her mouth and eyes frozen open in horror. Scott would have known she was dead even without SAM’s earlier warning. He crouches to scan the rest of her.

**Her name is Indira. An Initiative xenoanthropologist assigned to Havarl. Her file indicates that she was studying Angaran reincarnation lore with the Sages.**

_Then what’s she doing here?_

**I do not know. Her last log is dated over two years ago from the Sages' camp in Mithrava.**

Scott ignores the brick of text SAM pulls up onto the visor’s screen, he can dig through her past later. He takes in the rest of the room instead. There isn’t much physical evidence to go on, but there’s a pile of dirty clothes in one corner, and four empty packs of water sanitizing tabs next to the bedroll.

_She hasn’t been here that long. How did she die?_

**She appears to have been boiled alive, perhaps around the same time I detected the pulse.**

Scott knows better than to question SAM’s diagnostic programming, but that doesn’t make any sense. He leans in closer. Tiny blisters cover her face and arms, almost invisible at a distance. He doesn’t know what color Asari skin turns when it’s burned, but hers looks pretty normal, considering.

_How is that possible?_

**I do not know. I suggest we search the surrounding area.**

Scott agrees and steps over the woman’s body to poke through her things. He doesn’t find anything except more empty tab boxes and a scorpion under her pillow with two rounds loaded. It’s a surprisingly tame choice of pistol for someone who, until recently, lived on a planet as dangerous as Havarl, even for an Asari with strong biotics. _Nostalgic then,_ Scott thinks, clipping it to his shoulder. He tries turning on the terminal at her desk but it’s completely dead. A quick look at the wiring in the back tells him it’s been melted down.

**Nothing in this structure could have caused this kind of damage.**

_Do you know what could?_

**No.**

Scott gathers up all of the Asari’s scattered notes and brings them to the shuttle. Then he begins methodically sweeping the perimeter. It’s meditative, regulating his breathing to the step-scan-step rhythm of the work. 

**Reyes is attempting to contact you.**

Scott’s confused by that until he remembers muting his omni-tool earlier that morning. He resolutely doesn’t glance down at the screen. _Ignore it._

**Is this the wisest course of action?**

They share a brain, so Scott doesn’t have to use words. He shoves a few choice memories of their last big fight into the forefront of his mind and that's the end of it.

**There is a small cave to the southeast.**

Scott marches over to it and ducks inside.

**I’m reading a life sign further in. It is weak.**

Scott pulls up a barrier and slows down to a crawl. The passage is narrow and he has to hunch over, his bulk blocking most of the light from the outside.

“Hello?” he calls out, fumbling awkwardly over how he should announce himself. “I’m… here to help you.”

The spotlight from his helmet falls on what looks like a small bundle of rags up ahead, except that it’s rising and falling with erratic breaths. He lowers his barrier and crouches next to it, carefully pulling aside the top layer of clothing. Hidden underneath is a tiny blue body. _A baby,_ Scott realizes. He’s never seen an Asari this young before, but there’s no mistaking the elegant crests on her head. She reaches towards him, and his stomach lurches when he notices that her pupils are slit down the middle like a cat’s. Like an Angaran's. Deep blue irises swimming in a sea of black.

He pulls his hand back in surprise, and the girl’s face crumples into pure misery. She opens her mouth and wails, terrible and heartbroken. Scott’s face gets hot.

“Wait, wait, I’m sorry,” he tries, reaching out to her again. But her cries only get louder when he touches her arm. “It’s okay. You’re okay!” His skin starts to itch under his suit.

**Scott, I’m reading the same energy signature as before.**

“Come on, you’re safe. It’s going to be fine.” He gets one hand around her back and makes an aborted move to lift her. “Wait, let me get this off.” He pulls off his gauntlet hastily and the itching intensifies. Blisters no bigger than pinheads start blooming across his bare fingers.

**You must get out o—**

Burning pain shoots up his arm like an electric shock, paralyzing him as it sears down his spine and the rest of his nerves are being flayed, the pain an endless, rigid wall. He feels SAM assuming control over his biotics, pulling on their reserves to throw up a barrier.

The second it hits the air, the barrier explodes in his face.

 


	4. Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Reyes buys a gun_

Reyes buys a class nine Sokolov shotgun with a smart choke semi-automatic motor on his way home. He keeps one hand gripped on it, clipped to his hip holster, and the other on Scott's bag of ridiculous toys. He takes the long way back to avoid the crowds. It's not like he's expecting anything to happen—no more than he's always expecting some level of shit to happen—but his heart hasn't stopped pounding since Scott threw his lunch out the window and he knows from experience to stay away from innocent civilians whenever their arguments get physical.

The shuttle Scott took out of the city is registered to both of them, and the tracking beacon pings Reyes' omni-tool every 30 seconds, interrupting his furious thoughts.

_Three miles away... Eight miles away... Fifteen miles away…_

The map has to zoom out each time to accommodate the growing distance between them. Scott's big blue dot and Reyes' _You Are Here_ pulsing angrily on opposite sides of black and white mountains.

He left the cafe with cash on the table soon after Scott stormed off, needing silence and space and a _fucking plan_.

The second his eyes landed on the shotgun window display around the corner, he knew what to do. They'll go hunting together as soon as Scott gets back, he decided, marching inside to purchase their most expensive product. Reyes will get a list of all the child molesters and drug kingpins and public urinators this side of Andromeda and he’ll give it to Scott along with the shiny new gun. _Happy Birthday, is this what you want?_ Then they'll load up and get out of here. Reyes can get most of his work done from the shuttle if they stick to Collective space, and Scott can aim his anger at someone else for as long as it takes to drain out of him.

He shoves Scott's bag of children's toys to the back of the hall closet as soon as he gets home and shuts the door.

 _Thirty miles… Eighty miles..._ He turns off the alerts and calls Keema.

She makes him wait a full three minutes before answering, which is completely ridiculous. He paces around the house, unloading and loading the Sokolov. _Whur-click. Whur-click._ He'd left her in charge of the transition on Bakker, something she'd only agreed to for Scott's sake ("You'll be lucky if he hasn't already left you for someone else.") She won't be happy about his new plan to leave her there for some indeterminate amount of time, no matter who it's for.

When she finally answers, he can barely see her through the thick haze of cigar smoke that wafts around her projected form, filling the hologram right up to its squared edges.

"Evfra tells me that you and your husband are fighting," Keema drawls from somewhere in the center.

Reyes comes very close to hanging up on her. "How would he know that?" he grouses.

“Something about Ryder bleeding by the neck this morning and you ignoring it to talk business.”

Reyes runs a hand over his face. "He was _shaving_. Scott didn't even notice until Evfra pointed it out."

"I had no idea removing hair could be so... dangerous."

"He wasn't in— _we're not fighting_."

Keema takes a long drag, glaring at him over her fingers. “You had better not be wasting your little vacation, Reyes. It was your decision to keep these disgusting pirates as labor on Bakker, not mine.”

Purchasing the mining companies—it had become painfully clear within days of signing the agreement—was not actually going to guarantee them a loyal workforce. The stations orbiting the planet were full of workers, but the companies had been operating more like gangs than actual businesses for the past decade. The miners are belligerent and disorganized and "can't be bought for as cheap as them steel cranes, _sababa_?"

It turns out that the personality requirement for operating an excavation dragnet over an ionized gas giant for years at a time is equal parts militant and insane.

Keema had suggested they space the "dirty dust-heads" to make room for Collective workers from Kadara, but they couldn't afford to lose the expertise, no matter how unpredictable it made the work.

Reyes flops onto the couch, laying the shotgun across his lap. “And I'm very grateful that you agreed to step in. Are we on schedule?”

“No, thanks to these _vehshaanan_ ,” she spits. “They are like wraiths, disappearing and fighting amongst themselves. Eager for food and money, then sleeping on the job when nobody watches. Six are dead already. Over _a bet_.”

“Are you saying you can’t handle it on your own?”

She makes a rude gesture with her chin and index fingers and Reyes laughs despite himself. It pops out of him like a bark. “Evfra wants his first shipment before the end of the month,” he tells her.

“Impossible," she says. "And if you want to push these animals any harder, you will have to do it yourself."

“Not yet,” he pulls at a loose thread in the couch. “I have business to attend to here."

"So you _are_ fighting."

"It's not a fight." He bounces the shotgun against his knee. "He's unhappy here. I need to get us out of Kadara for a while. Maybe. A change of scenery…"

“This is not a good time for a romantic getaway, Shena." Her tone is uncharacteristically gentle, but he hears the harsher version of the same argument he made to Scott in the cafe. No wonder he’d been pissed.

Reyes leans back into the cushions, sighing heavily at the ceiling. He wishes Keema were actually here, choking the room with smoke and yelling him back into common sense.

"And if you abandon me now to this stinking fuel depot," she continues, "I will personally carve you up and ship your remains straight into the _novolori_."

He smirks. "I thought you liked Scott? You'd be killing his partner."

"He is strong and smart. And more than capable of getting along without you around."

"Unlike you, apparently."

She ignores him. "Bring him to Bakker if he's so desperate for change. He'll be begging to go back to Kadara the minute he gets here."

 _Nothing like a few dozen asset management meetings to cure overwhelming boredom,_ he thinks wryly.

Keema stubs out her cigar when it's clear he has no reply ready. "Decide as you will. You have three days to get back here or find someone else for the job," she tells him, and ends the call.

Reyes doesn't move for a while after that, just breathes and thinks. He finds the loose thread again and yanks it out. The couch is made of a woven, spongy cotton picked straight off the tops of trees on Elaadan's lower continent. A krogan spotted some local wildlife using it as nesting material one day— realized that making comfortable furniture was actually a pretty novel business idea in the new world. Maybe the reason nobody had stopped running after so many years was because they had nowhere nice to lie down.

It had been Scott's idea to put a couch in the middle of the living room, though his original plan was to salvage the beat-up red four-seater from Reyes' office in Tartarus— they _did_ share a lot of good memories there— but it was lopsided and stained and Reyes hadn't exactly been policing who all had sex on it when he wasn't around. So the next time they were on Elaaden visiting Drack, they bought a piece of this new krogan upholstery everyone was raving about. A bittersweet reminder of the luxuries they’d all left behind.

Even with all their new furniture in place, Scott and Reyes hadn't officially moved into the apartment until a few days after they got married. Reyes remembers Scott dragging him inside, warm and drunk after sharing a bottle on the rooftop. Stumbling over boxes still unpacked in every corner. They landed on the couch first, Scott underneath him, rocking together with their skin stripped bare save for the new rings. Scott whispered his plans for the kitchen into the space between them but Reyes couldn't speak, not at the sight of him, just kept thinking,  _Thank god. Thank god. Here it is._ And held on.

He tries to call Scott on his omni-tool, but there's no response. At his third attempt, SAM flickers to life on the corner desk long enough to tell him to cut it out. It doesn't use actual words, just pings a simple acknowledgement that might as well mean _fuck off_ , _I’m busy_ before shutting down again.

He’s saved from brooding over that too much by an urgent transmission from Crux. He knows it’s from her, even though he doesn’t recognize the address she’s using, because she’s the only one on Meridian with access to his encrypted channel. Nobody knows about her mission except the two of them, and there’s only one reason she’d be contacting him in this way.

He’s been waiting a long time for this.

Reyes puts the shotgun aside and opens the recording attached to her email. The head of a Quarian male materializes, his mask expressionless behind the blue and white Initiative colors of his uniform.

“ _Keelah Se'lai_ , Jien Garson,” says Telem’Yered, Pathfinder for the Quarian Ark. The vid is a one-way transmission, sent over millions of miles to where the Quarians assume the Initiative leadership must still be intact. Reyes has been intercepting these transmissions for nine years, ever since they started reaching Andromeda. When the Quarian Ark first fell out of FTL, their messages had been a garbled mess. Something about an outbreak of disease—widespread sabotage from a radicalized officer who had since been dispatched—half of their cryopods malfunctioned in the upheaval. Many had died.

The Keelah Si'yah has been sending regular status updates to the Nexus since then; at least once a year when their oversight rotation wakes up to run diagnostics. Their Pathfinder was supposed to stay in stasis until arrival, but the damage to their engines and subsequent drift made navigation impossible without the help of their SAM, and even then they were delayed by several years. In all that time, there had never been a way to respond to any of their messages. Each transmission took weeks to reach Andromeda, and the Quarians never included their planned trajectory as a standard precaution.

Finally— _finally_ —they’re in close enough range to receive a reply. The image of Telem’Yered vas Keelah Si'yah flickers around the edges, just two days old. Reyes leans forward, his breath rippling across the holo. He can almost hear Telem’Yered’s own intake through his suit.

“By our calculations, we are three months away,” Telem continues, unaware of Reyes’ presence at his chin. “Without any forthcoming updates from Initiative Command, SAM has set our course for H-047c. We would be grateful for any assistance you can prepare for our arrival. I’ve attached a list of our most urgent medical and technical requirements.”

Telem rolls his shoulders and looks past Reyes and the camera. Points of light streak across his mask; stars passing the ship at speed. “It has been a long and hard journey, Jien,” he says at last. “I look forward to reuniting… and seeing what you’ve accomplished.”

And then he's gone. It’s shorter than the usual updates, maybe because he's expecting an actual response this time. Reyes forces himself to take measured steps across the apartment to their bedroom, where he opens a back panel in his mostly empty dresser. This part of the plan has been meticulously prepared. He pulls out an old Alliance uniform he'd bought from a retired crop supervisor in Ditaeon three years ago and puts it on carefully. It’s been several lifetimes since he’s had to do up the stiff blue collar to his chin, but his hands still remember the cross-clip-tie they memorized in Basic. He checks himself over in the mirror—he can't afford to make any mistakes, not a single one.

Reyes' Initiative records had been scrubbed along with all of the exiles’ after the Uprising, but the Keelah Si'yah will have the old files still on board. When they look him up, they'll see the padded truths that got him hired to the Nexus six hundred years ago. He's a talented Alliance pilot. An asset. A team player with “strong leadership potential.”

If Reyes fails to intercept the Ark before it reaches the Nexus, all of those old records will be exposed. Collective operations all over the cluster would grind to a halt, and any exiles living on Initiative planets under false identities would be forced out of their homes. Given the chance, Reyes doesn’t doubt Addison would round them all up, separating families just like last time. They would use it as an excuse to take over land and businesses owned by the Collective. It would ruin their chances for independence completely.

He double-checks Scott’s position on his omni-tool—still blinking at eighty miles away—to make sure he won’t be interrupted. He decided years ago and easily that he wouldn’t include Scott in this ruse. His silence would have been too much to ask for.

Reyes fixes his hair in the bathroom and then chooses a good position with his back to the windows. The vid won’t be high enough quality for them to pick out any specifics about the city beyond, but it will be obvious he’s not on a ship.

He hits record.

"Pathfinder Telem'Yered vas Keelah Si'yah, my name is Reyes Vidal, broadcasting from Habitat Four, now named Kadara, where I am acting administrator.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I have been monitoring your transmissions for the past nine years and am relieved to finally have you in sufficient range to reply.”

He takes a deep breath. If they believe him until this point, they might just buy the truth.

“I regret to inform you that both Jien Garson and Alec Ryder died in the initial push into Andromeda. Our Golden Worlds proved more difficult to settle than anticipated, but five of the seven worlds have provided stable environments, now flourishing. The Turian and Quarian homeworld, H-047c, was unfortunately destroyed by an environmental hazard we call the Scourge. I am sorry. We will do everything in our power to provide for your needs. More details will follow once we receive an acknowledge."

He packages the message and encrypts it to Crux. It will take two days to reach the Ark and four days to hear back. By then he’ll be on Bakker to sort out the delays with the Helium-3. They'll need enough to run an FTL burn back into dark space. The clock is ticking. Three months.

He eyes the shotgun on the table and hesitates. _When this is done, I promise. We'll be free to go anywhere._ He picks it up and seals it away with the toys in the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm sticking to the canonical version of what happened to the Quarian Ark, based on the ME "Annihilation" novel.)


	5. Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Scott wakes up and gets a lot of compliments_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miscommunication can be a form of foreplay, right?

Scott can't tell if his eyes are open. He's lying face up, he knows that much, but he can't move and everything is pitch black. Slowly, very slowly, his body begins to register the damage he took during the blast; bone-deep bruises ache across his back and shoulders, and a sharp pain in his chest forces him to keep his breaths tight and shallow. His face pulls into a grimace. _Fuck._

_Fuck._

He lies motionless for a long time, listening to his own rattled breathing.

There are specific steps you're supposed to take after a detonation at close range. He starts by carefully moving his head from side to side. His helmet is still intact, but his brain must have gotten knocked around because every time he tilts his chin up to meet his neck, a full body flinch sweeps through him like a short circuit. He blinks in and out of consciousness.

_SAM._

**Move slowly.**

_No problem there._ He starts testing his toes, wiggling them in his boots. _What happened?_

**I suspect the energy buildup around the child destabilized your biotic field.**

_Yeah, I got that part._ He tries to bring his left arm up to inspect the damage but it won’t move. _I felt something in my arm when I took off my gauntlet. Those blisters…_ He can't feel those fingers at all.

**If the energy reacts violently to element zero, that would explain the damage to your skin and amplifier.**

Scott's blood runs cold. _What's wrong with my amp?_ The dead silence where it's constant hum would usually warm the base of his skull is suddenly obvious and sickening. He can't feel it at all. Or his neck, for that matter, now that he thinks about it. 

He knows this feeling—like the nerves have been deliberately switched off.

**I'm sorry, Pathfinder. The burns are too severe and you must remain conscious in order to leave.**

_Shit._

Scott pushes himself up slowly, letting his right arm do all the work. A thin stream of light filters into the cave from behind him, and he can just make out the baby a few feet further inside. Alive but unconscious, her life signs flash on his visor display next to his own. They're weak, his and hers, but steady. He gives himself a few seconds to feel relieved.

His left hand looks like it's been microwaved. Bright red and swollen, it lies limp at his side, every inch of it covered in tiny, circular blisters. Scott forces himself to look away. A problem for later.

His armor held up pretty well against the blast though; scratched paint and a new dent in his elbow plate where he must have tried to catch himself too much to one side, his other arm unresponsive. By the size of it, if the shock absorbers in that joint hadn't been brand-fucking-new then both his arms might be out of commission now, one arm burned out and the other one broken.

Scott regards the baby warily.

**We cannot risk waking her up.**

_I know._ He tries to pull up his omni-tool display, but surprise, surprise, it’s dead. Just a brick of hard metal strapped to his arm. _Guess I should have seen that coming._ He’ll have to get to the shuttle then and hope it’s still working.

He’s two steps out of the cave when his visor registers a nearby hostile. A wraith materializes to his right, already poised to pounce. Scott veers away, pulling on his biotics for a quick Throw but nothing happens. Not even a spark. He flinches as another wave of dizzying vertigo sweeps through him.

The wraith dives for his leg and sinks its teeth into his calf, thrashing. Scott cries out as the two of them go tumbling to the ground. He grabs blindly for the scorpion at his shoulder and fires it twice into the beast’s head, nearly taking off his own damn foot. The wraith goes slack, growl dying in its throat.

The Asari's pistol hisses in his palm, excising heat he can feel straight through his armor.

Scott pulls the wraith’s jaws off of his leg and shoves the corpse away, breathing hard. He can tell SAM’s blocking more and more of his nerves now; most of his left side has gone numb. He staggers over to the shuttle.

He needs to get the baby out of here before more wraiths arrive, drawn in by the smell of his blood.

_How do I move her without getting fried?_

**Cryostasis.**

Scott considers his options before pulling up the shuttle comms, which are still functional, if a little hot. He opens a channel and blinks heavily. Dr. Ryota Nakamoto’s concerned face is peering back at him from the display. He doesn’t remember punching in any coordinates. But this is good. Ryota’s clinic is nearby in Ditaeon. He’s reliable under pressure. He’ll—

“Scott? Hello? Is that you?” Ryota squints at him. “Christ, what happened?”

“I need you to come to my location with a cryopod,” Scott grits out. He thinks about her unmistakably cat-like Angaran eyes. “And don’t tell anyone.”

"What's going on?" The doctor is already shrugging on his jacket, heading for the door.

"I'll explain everything when you get here, just—” another jolt hits him, sudden and violent like slamming the Nomad into a pothole at a hundred miles an hour. He cringes. “Hurry.”

Scott shares his navpoint over the connection then lets it go dead. He leans against the wall of the shuttle, good leg twitching with exhaustion.

**Do not sleep until Nakamoto arrives.**

_Better make things interesting for me then, SAM._ But he doesn’t need the warning. One Ryder slipping into a coma had been more than enough for that lesson to sink in.

Scott reloads the scorpion and takes up position with his back to the shuttle, cave dead ahead. He won’t be much use against more than one assailant, or anything more dangerous than a spitbug, but he can cause enough havoc to serve as a distraction, at least until Ryota gets here.

He’s down on one knee and panting by the time he spots the cloud of dust rising over the valley. Dr. Nakamoto doesn’t even bother turning off the engine before diving out of the vehicle and rushing over to him. Scott waves him off.

“There’s a girl inside, a baby. Take her to the pod and seal it.” He hopes SAM’s assessment of the energy pulse is accurate; that whatever she did only affects eezo and won’t hurt a human with no biotics.

To his credit, Ryota doesn’t ask any questions. Just whips out a battlefield medigel canister with _critcon_ emblazoned across the side and stabs it into his bleeding leg. Then he's disappearing into the cave. 

Scott sighs as the ice-cold medication leeches into his system. The deep wounds in his calf close over quickly with new skin; pink and raw.

Ryota is returning with the baby wrapped in his arms, determination and awe clear in his features. Scott’s hand is empty. The pistol is on the ground by his knee. He blinks down at it, head spinning.

The next thing he knows, he’s strapped into the passenger seat of Ryota’s survey vehicle. They’re swerving around boulders and sideswiping trees, the cryopod banging from side to side in the cargo hold behind them. Ryota’s shouting at someone on his omni-tool, white-knuckling the wheel.

**Nakamoto is an extremely bad driver.**

_Don’t tell him that._

Scott’s pulled from the shuttle and manhandled onto a gurney by people he can’t see. Someone is pressing the emergency releases on his armor and pulling it off piece by piece. They’re laying on the medigel pretty thick—no injections, just the raw stuff straight to his skin.

The second they start yanking at his visor he starts screaming, vision whiting out.

“Fuck, his amp is melted to the back of his helmet.”

Scott whimpers. The hands are gone but the jolts are coming faster now, threading down his nerves like barbed wire.

“What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know, he was like this when I got there. Get me the plate cutter.”

He hears a drill starting somewhere very distant and passes out.

***

Reyes is muttering something nearby, two hands gently holding one of his. “... _te prometo._ ” He sounds so tired. _“Que sea necesario_.”

***

**Vitals at eighty-five percent. Initializing core temperature increase.**

***

When he wakes up again, he’s alone. 

Initiative medical units all have the exact same tile patterns in the ceiling. Scott’s woken up to them so many times over the years that for several minutes, he’s more confused about the _when_ than the where.

 **"** You’re awake.”

Reyes is hovering by the door, eyes wide. Day-old stubble darkens his cheeks and chin, coming into stark relief as he advances to the side of the bed, palm settling over Scott’s knee. He leans over and buries his face in Scott’s neck, breathing deeply.

“How long was I out?” Scott asks eventually, voice cracking around a dry throat.

Reyes moves away just enough to get him a glass of water from the bedside table. “A day and a half.” He takes it back once Scott’s finished and sits heavily on the side of the bed, their hips pressed together.

They’ve done this before. Reyes probably knows these Initiative medical cubes even more intimately than Scott does; he’s usually the only one conscious. Reyes rubs a hand compulsively up and down Scott’s chest, expression blank.

“That bad?” Scott asks. He can’t feel much beyond a dull throb behind his eyes, and his left hand looks like it's back to normal. He makes a loose fist, just to be sure.

“You spent a long time in surgery.” Reyes’ mouth twists around something ugly. “It’s fine now,” he says roughly. “You’ll be fine.”

Scott catches Reyes’ restless hand and squeezes. There’s an emotion in that tone that Scott dreads more intensely than any life or death fight he’s ever walked into. He’s only ever seen Reyes succumb to it once. “Well, not exactly fine,” Scott jokes, pausing for effect. “I really, really need to piss.”

Reyes huffs out a laugh, sagging. There’s a weak smile. “Okay, come on.”

Reyes gives him a bit of room to stand on his own before crowding back in, bending to wrap one arm around Scott’s back. Scott doesn’t really need the support to walk, but Reyes doesn’t seem ready to let go yet so Scott allows it. He shoos Reyes away once they reach the bathroom, though.

He can stand steady over the toilet, at least. _Aim’s still good._

Scott doesn’t think twice about looking up into the mirror while he's washing his hands and can't help but jerk back at the sight. His whole head has been shaved down to an uneven buzz. He twists to get a better view and finds a thick, bald scar running from the base of his skull down the length of his neck. It’s bumpy and thick, two-inches across and still pink after a hurried medigel seal. 

He runs his fingers over where his amp port used to be, the dead skin barely registering his touch.

His mother had been one of the lead scientists on the L3 design. It was how his parents met, before the First Contact War, and it was the unregulated eezo exposure during those experiments that made her sick. Scott and Sara were two of the first biotics to receive the L3s, long before they knew her work on the implants was killing her. Sara’d had hers upgraded when she joined the Alliance, but he’s kept the same one since he was twelve.

Until they cut it out of him.

A rush of nausea climbs into his throat and bends him over the sink, heart pounding. He rests his head against the cold metal and waits for it to pass, running a hand on autopilot through the feathery buzz on his head until it catches on another scar, much smaller than the first, tucked behind his left ear. _So I wasn’t hallucinating the Spanish._

**Your translator chip was damaged beyond repair. I can provide the same service, if you wish.**

_Will everyone sound like you when they talk?_

There’s a beat of silence.

**While I fail to see anything wrong with that, I am perfectly capable of replicating a simple voice modulator.**

Scott smiles against the sink. _How are you holding up?_

**I am functioning normally. Though I am not… immune from fear.**

Scott doesn’t remember feeling afraid, only the jagged clarity of urgent thoughts, so he isn’t sure what to make of that. He splashes cold water over his face and, without thinking, reaches to Pull a towel from a stack across the room. Nothing. He grabs one and wipes at his face, avoiding the mirror on his way out.

Reyes is typing furiously on his omni-tool right outside the bathroom door, shoulders hunched over the little screen. He swipes it off when he sees Scott and offers his arm.

“It had to be done,” he says quietly, leading Scott back to bed.

Scott pulls Reyes down with him so they can lay side by side. He swipes a thumb across Reyes' forehead, smoothing over ever-deepening frown lines. It's a losing battle, but Scott's committed. “What, the hair?" he murmurs. "I’ll have to have a serious talk with Ryota when I see him. It’s really uneven at the back.”

Reyes flicks him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re in luck, I just told him to come check on you.”

Ryota pushes into the room, datapad in hand. He offers Scott an exhausted, but relieved smile. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, maneuvering around Reyes—who doesn’t move an inch—to reach Scott’s neck. He prods gently around the scar.

“Tired, mostly.” _Might as well get it over with._ “You took out my amp.”

Ryota’s expression hardens. “It was that or let it kill you. You’re lucky the damage to your spinal cord wasn’t permanent.”

“The brief blackouts you experienced were focal seizures, Pathfinder.” SAM says out loud, using the speakers in Reyes’ omni-tool. **“** Ryota had no other option.”

“We’ll get you a new one,” Reyes assures him.

“ _If_ the nerves can handle a second surgery,” Ryota clarifies, glaring at Reyes. It’s clear they’ve already talked about this. “Which isn’t guaranteed.” He adds a few things to his datapad. “You need to rest. And not use your biotics for a while. And not go around rescuing strange babies.”

“I second that,” Reyes says.

Scott groans. “Is she alright?”

“She’s still in the stasis pod. I was able to do some readings…” Ryota glances between them. “I’m out of my depth here, Scott. Genetic mutation isn’t exactly my field.”

“The eyes are Angaran, aren’t they?” Scott’s brief encounter with her was enough to confirm at least that much. “But I’ve seen Asari with Angaran fathers before. None of them looked like that.”

Ryota shrugs uncomfortably. “It’s not for me to say.” He shoots another look at Reyes.

Scott doesn’t need SAM to tell him there’s something fishy going on. “What is it?” He sits up. “ _Reyes,_ what aren’t you telling me?”

Reyes rolls away from him and off the bed. He starts pacing. “Some idiot found the pod while Ryota was busy with you and sent the readings to Aya.” Frustration bleeds through his tone. “You can imagine the fear this is spreading already—a mutation like this.”

Scott doesn’t have to imagine it. He’d seen Jaal’s reaction to exaltation firsthand. The hatred and terror of those experiments that drove Akksul to mass murder.

“Obviously. That’s why I asked Ryota not to tell anyone in the first place.”

“I was _a little busy_.”

Reyes ignores them. “Tate and I have been doing damage control all night,” he says, “but the rumors are getting dangerous-- even HNS ran a story about the Collective's 'illegal genetic tests'."

"They can't seriously believe—That's ridiculous! The Asari I found with her was an Initiative scientist." Scott tries to think past the throb in his head. "What about the Moshae?” he asks. “I'll speak with her, explain what I found at the site.”

Reyes nods like he’d been expecting this. “We found the girl's mother when we recovered your shuttle, but it's a meaningless reassurance coming from me." He's back on his omni-tool. "Tate can set up the call. Can you make it across the village, or do I have to carry you?”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Any excuse for a good grope.”

“I would _never_ grope you in public!”

Ryota snorts.

“I would never grope you in public _against your will,_ ” Reyes clarifies.

Scott laughs despite the lump in his throat. Relieved at least to see Reyes' mood lightening enough to crack shitty jokes.

It takes a few more minutes of prodding for Ryota to clear him to leave. The medigel treatments took care of the surface burns along his arm, but he'd still taken a beating. Reyes hands him a pair of jeans and his favorite black and blue t-shirt from home, and Scott decides not to ask about the state of the armor they'd pulled him out of. Not yet.

Scott moves slowly as they leave Ryota’s modest Initiative-standard clinic (Scott standing on his own, thank you very much) and walk into Ditaeon's main square. It’s just past dawn, the sun inching slowly into the valley, casting mountain peaks into long shadows across the empty road.

There aren’t many people awake yet, just a few fishermen gathering their tackles and moving quietly down to the lake. The houses here are clustered tightly together and built to last; the walls made of smooth slabs of yellow-brown stone, mined from the surrounding mountains. It’s like the earth itself has risen up to make homes for the settlers. The roofs are light and porous, cut from the deep red wood of mushroom trees. It barely ever rains on Kadara—water shoots up from vents in the ground, not the sky— and the honeycombed wood allows heat to escape during the sweltering summers.

Washing lines full of sheets and clothing squeak in the slight wind off the lake. The faint smell of fish skins wafts over from the opposite bank, where farming nets teem with shrimp no bigger than fingernails. The settlers haven’t been able to breed them any larger, no matter how much nutrients they pump into the water.

Scott remembers, all of a sudden, that he and Reyes were—are—still fighting about those presents.  _And everything else._  The thought exhausts him. He stops in the middle of the street and grabs Reyes’ hand, twining their fingers together.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Reyes turns to him, free hand sliding automatically over Scott’s hip. “What’s up?”

“Kiss me.”

Reyes’ mouth twitches up at the corners. He leans forward, brushing his lips lightly over Scott’s before sealing them together. Scott relaxes into it, Reyes’ thumb rubbing circles through his jeans. It’s soft and chaste. 

When they break apart and continue walking—Reyes nipping at the side of Scott’s mouth once, and then again—Scott keeps their hands clasped together.  

Old Initiative tech becomes a more common sight as they get closer to the village center. Doors made of iron, the occasional glass window; pieces of the original outpost that have long since been recycled. Mayor Tate’s complex remains mostly intact, with its smooth metal walls and spiral staircase. It has more in common with the Remnant Monolith towering over them to the west than with the people actually living here.

Tate greets them at the door, arms folded over his broad chest. He stands at least a foot taller than the both of them. “You sure you’re up for this, Ryder?” he booms.

“It’s just a vid-call, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Tate shakes his head ominously, leading them through his pristine apartment. “You haven’t been dodging calls from Addison all night.”

Tate’s living quarters are spartan in the extreme. No decorations or personal effects are visible except for a neatly stacked pile of datapads on an otherwise empty desk in the corner. 

It all looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago. Scott wouldn’t be surprised if Tate was still using an Initiative blow-up mattress as a bed.

“Addison?” Scott asks, incredulous. “Why’s she involved in this?”

They move into what looks like a closet with a full-sized holo-conferencing table shoved inside. There’s barely enough room for the three of them to stand around it. 

Tate shrugs. “Hell if I know. This isn’t any of my goddamn business. The sooner it’s all wrapped up the better.” He starts dialing out from the table’s menu.

Scott watches uneasily as a familiar set of Nexus protocols flash across the screen. _Do you still have logs of all the scans we took of that Asari and the girl?_

**Yes.**

_Send them to Lexi._

**I will have to hack one of Mayor Tate’s terminals, or route the message through Reyes’ omni-tool.**

Reyes is dragging a chair over from Tate’s office and jamming it in the doorway, the only place where it will fit. He motions for Scott to sit down.

 _Right. No omni-tool for me._ He takes the seat, smiling warming at his husband. _Use Reyes’._

**Done.**

Reyes frowns down at his ‘tool a moment later, swiping through a few screens. He raises an eyebrow at Scott but doesn’t say anything.

“Ryder, why am I not surprised to find you in the middle of this?”

Director Addison stands at the holo-table with her hands clasped behind her, back straight, legless, empty-eyed. She’d been perfectly happy to drop the Pathfinder title the second it no longer applied. There’s an Asari wearing an Initiative doctor’s uniform standing next to her, shuffling back and forth nervously.

Holo-tables downgrade the visible spectrum to just one color—blue—for faster transmission speeds, but Scott can still make out the slight dusting of white in Addison’s hair. It’s the only indication that over a year has passed since the last time he's seen her.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Scott challenges. “What’s your stake in this?”

“Indira was an Initiative scientist,” Addison says sharply. “We thought she died years ago, only now she turns up on Kadara. With a mutant baby.”

Tate waves a hand in frustration. "You keep implying something without saying it straight and I’m gonna get a hernia, Addison. Unless the treaty's changed, that woman was free to come and go as she pleased."

Three more figures appear around the table. Scott isn't surprised to see Evfra and the Moshae, but the third Angara… he has to wrack his brain for the name.

**First Sage Esmus, from Havarl. Indira's logs mentioned her work with him and the other Sages in Mithrava.**

_That's right. He's the one who explained Angaran reincarnation to us._  

The Moshae inclines her head to him. "Pathfinder. Scott, I'm so glad you're alright."

He can't help but preen a little under her gaze. "It's nice to see you again, Moshae."

"Yes, we're all very happy to see that the Pathfinder is still alive," Evfra growls. "What can he tell us about this mutated child that we can’t already guess?"

Addison answers before Scott can. "She's the daughter of an Asari, Indira T'nora, a xenoanthropologist. A scholar. There's no reason to believe these accusations of—"

"We know who she was," the Sage, Esmus, interrupts. "She lived with us for many years, studying our ancient history. Stealing our secrets."

"She wasn’t stealing anything. That was her job!” says the Asari beside Addison. “We all had permission from Aya to be on Havarl and study with the Sages.”

“That’s true,” the Moshae agrees. “But it would seem she was doing far more than studying.” She turns to Esmus. “Is he ready?”

Esmus nods and beckons to someone out of view. Another Angaran flickers into focus. He looks young, his face fresh and unpainted. He wears the same Sage’s clothes as Esmus.

“This is Sage Amurd,” Esmus introduces. “He was the last person to see Indira before she disappeared.”

Addison looks furious. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“Please tell us what happened, Amurd,” the Moshae says gently, ignoring her.

"We were meeting as we normally did—at twilight in front of the sculpture of Jephro,” Amurd begins shakily. “She was helping me map my genealogy to before the Sundering, and we were getting quite far, nearly to the time of the Cataclysm,” Amurd looks down at his hands. “She touched my arm, just for a moment, and her eyes went black. I saw images of my family, and of my mothers' families. Angarans I have never known. Havarl, the way it must have looked many centuries ago, the temples free of lichen. And Voeld, before the ice came. Whole cities under the surface." He sucks in a breath. "When I woke from these visions, she was gone."

There’s a long, heavy silence around the table.

The Moshae turns to the Asari. “Explain.”

“It’s… called Embracing Eternity.” the doctor says, glancing at Addison uncertainty. “It allows Asari to access another person’s genetic code, usually during the mating process. Memories sometimes surface, but—”

“We were not mates!” Amurd protests. “I would never.”

“Asari biology is difficult to explain,” the doctor hedges, “It’s not mating as you understand it. The Embrace allows us to select which of the other individual’s genes we want to pass down. It’s not an experiment. Only genes compatible with Asari physiology can be used. The child is Asari—”

“Apparently not,” the Moshae cuts her off coldly. “I have seen the girl’s eyes.”

“And what about these visions?” Esmus asks, gesturing at Amurd’s head. “The body of an Angaran is only ever a vessel for past lives. An entire history passed down in our genetics! Any child born with Angaran memories is of the Angara.”

“But that’s not how Asari reproduction works,” the doctor insists. “There isn’t any actual Angaran blood, or even DNA, really—”

“How can you say that, when she has my mother’s eyes?” Amurd asks, appalled.

Addison holds up both hands. “The child’s mother was a member of the Initiative, she should be brought to Eos where we have facilities and doctors who understand Asari biology.”

Scott frowns at that. _What does she care where the kid goes?_ Addison got worked up over her best friend’s baby all those years ago, sure. But to risk a diplomatic incident over something this impersonal?

Amurd looks completely wrecked now. “But you say that she is my child—in some small way,” he wrings his hands. “I knew Indira for many years. She often spoke of the relatives she left behind in order to come here. There is no one left of this child’s family but me.”

“You are welcome to join her on Eos, of course.” Addison says tidily.

“ _Vesagara_ ,” Esmus snarls at her. “The Sages do not leave Mithrava. And Angara do not raise their children amongst strangers.”

Evfra mutters something to the Moshae in a dialect Scott doesn’t recognize. Reyes snorts beside him.

Addison rounds on Reyes, diplomatic posture evaporating in an instant. “And why are you here, exactly?” she snaps.

Reyes raises an eyebrow. “This is my planet,” he says slowly. “And I just found out that one of your scientists has been hiding here with a weapon powerful enough to knock out a satellite tower. Five miles away from my biggest colony.”

 _A weapon?_ Scott tries to think back to everything he’d told Ryota about the incident. 

**You did not relay any particulars about how you sustained your injuries. His medical reports reflect an assumption that it was an ion field generator.**

“ _Your_ colony?” Addison hisses. “Is that an Initiative logo I see painted on the wall, or have you forgotten who built the fucking room you’re standing in?”

“Actually,” Tate pipes up, glaring at both of them. “I built this room. And it’s my people who fixed the sat tower.” He rubs at his eyes. “I don’t care whose goddamn flag we’re using, my priority is the safety of this town. That girl’s nothing but trouble. She can’t stay here, frozen or thawed or whatever.”

“Then it’s settled,” Addison says, straightening again. “She’ll be transported to Eos.”

The Moshae shakes her head. “I cannot allow that. Esmus is correct, if this is a child born of her father’s memories, then I must insist she be returned to his family.”

The doctor tries again, tone panicked. “I can’t stress enough how incorrect that is—” 

“Asari,” Evfra rumbles, deep voice plowing easily over hers. “You are not the first aliens to use science to mask theft.”

Addison pales. “Surely you don’t think—”

“This is exactly how the Kett first approached us!” cries Esmus.

“That’s not fair!”

Esmus turns abruptly to Evfra. He speaks in dialect; rapid, heated Shelesh punctuated by his fist thumping down against a table they can’t see. He points accusingly at Addison, tone demanding. Evfra’s face turns grim and Reyes stiffens. Scott can tell he’s barely biting back a reply to whatever Esmus is saying.

_Of course Reyes can’t intervene. He needs to keep Kadara out of whatever the hell’s happening here._

Scott gets slowly to his feet. “I’ll take her to Havarl,” he says, addressing the First Sage directly. The Angaran’s angry words die in his throat.

“Esmus, you know me,” Scott continues. “I’m not Asari. Or Kett. I have only ever acted in the best interests of your people. Let me bring her to you and her father.”

Scott turns to Addison. “And I’ll be a point of contact for the Nexus.” _Whatever her angle is, it’ll be hard to say no to this._

Esmus nods slowly. “Pathfinder,” he says. “You are always welcome here.”

“I agree,” says the Moshae.

Addison scowls at him.

“Don’t worry, Director,” Scott tells her. “I’ll make sure to find an Asari doctor once we get there, if that’s what’s holding you back.”

Addison passes a frustrated glare between Evfra and Esmus. Her jaw clenches around her answer. “Fine. Ryder will escort the baby to Havarl.”

“Hallelujah,” Tate huffs. “Are we done?”

***

It’s dark by the time they finish going over the logistics with Esmus and the Moshae. Scott will take the pod and leave on a Collective ship early tomorrow morning, the journey set to take a little over a week without FTL. Reyes keeps quiet during their planning, speaking up only to confirm certain details about the ship and refueling stops.

On the ride back to Kadara Port, Reyes stares out the shuttle’s windows into the dense ring of stars overhead. The Scourge is up there, snaking across the system, obvious only where bright stars fall into shadow.

When they get inside the apartment, Scott grabs the front of Reyes’ shirt, batting his hand away from the light switch. He drags Reyes over to the couch, navigating backwards in the dark. It’s his favorite spot in the whole house; he knows exactly where it is. A little too big for the room, maybe, but they can both fit on it in almost any position, which makes it better than the bed in a lot of situations.

He should probably explain everything to Reyes, bring him in on what actually happened in the cave. It wasn't some ion field generator that nearly killed him. But then they'd end up arguing again. Scott might be the only person the Angara will trust right now. There'd be no point in his husband throwing a fit over some non-existent danger. And they need to get to the bottom of this.

Scott pushes Reyes down onto the couch with a thump, then climbs into his lap and straddles him.

“I guess I should start learning some Spanish now,” he says, running a finger behind Reyes’ ear. “What with my translator out of commission.”

"Why?" Reyes asks. He thumbs at the hem of Scott’s shirt, but his gaze is still wandering halfway to space. "I barely speak any Spanish these days."

"You were saying something to me earlier.” Scott tries to recall the exact words. “I woke up for a second and you were holding my hand."

Reyes’ face flushes. "Oh. My vows."

Scott nuzzles at the stubble covering Reyes’ cheek, fingers ghosting over his neck. “I don’t remember those being in another language.” It’s usually obvious when the chip is active, a slight monotone invading the speaker’s voice. “But I might have been a bit distracted.”

Reyes' body is warm underneath him. “The version I told you wasn’t, but I had to write them in Spanish first. To get them right.”

Scott smiles. “Can you teach me the original?”

Reyes’ hands start sneaking over the outside of Scott’s thighs, squeezing. "I think you’re supposed to start with the dirty words,” he murmurs. “Traditionally."

Scott grinds down slowly into his lap, drawing a groan. Reyes presses back, rubbing his growing hard on against Scott's.

"We are _not_ traditional,” Scott teases.

Reyes pulls Scott closer. “ _Tienes el mejor culo que he visto_ ,” he whispers, hands kneading Scott’s ass. “ _Lo he estado pensando todo el día_.”

Scott’s breath hitches. “What— uh.” Reyes’ lips are on his throat now, sucking lightly.  “What does…that mean?”

Reyes gives Scott’s ass a sharp slap, swallowing Scott's gasp of surprise with a deep kiss. He wraps Scott's legs around his waist and gets to his feet, Scott pushing desperately against him even as his grip tightens.

Reyes starts walking them towards the bedroom. “ _Quiero lamerlo_ ,” he purrs into Scott’s collarbone. " _Quiero chuparlo_.” Scott squirms, breathless, close.

Reyes’ knees hit the side of the bed and he lowers Scott onto his back, dark eyes pinning him down, daring him to leave. Reyes crouches over him, slowly working Scott's fly open one-handed. “ _Voy a devorarte_ ,” he breathes.

**Pathfinder, shall I translate—**

_No!_


	6. Drack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You look like shit, kid."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience~ I appreciate all of your wonderful comments  
> ...and I promise I wrote out the whole plot for this fic before Mandalorian started ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

In all his life, Drack's never heard of a Krogan dying of old age.

Oldest Krogan he ever met was a couple of years younger than he is now, and that fuckhead only died because she was too big of an idiot to load her grenade launcher properly.

Drack's sitting on some beach on Kadara's eastern continent—Korcosa—taking a breather on top of a dead rylkor. He spits a wad of chewed-up korkro root onto the bone-white sand. It's the smooth kind; stones so tiny it's impossible to tell what they might have been before a few million waves beat them to shit. Now the fine grains are all caught up between his armor plates, sticky and rough and slowing him down. Just a little.

The beach all around him is pock-marked with corpses, blood and gore disappearing with the incoming tide. Drack stopped counting after twenty but there's probably a good three dozen rylkor laid out to the left and right of his footprints down the shore. Only one set of Krogan feet—he works alone these days and never had to turn around to finish the job.

Rylkor are the pyjaks of Andromeda. They love digging up crops and spraying their scent on everything. That's okay. Most animals do that. But let enough of them accumulate and they start getting bolder, more territorial. Then you gotta hire a Krogan for some cleanup duty. 

 _Typical_.

Easy credits though. Third job like this he's taken in under a month.

He spits another wad of thick, black root and gets up, rolling his bad shoulder carefully. The Salarian village that hired his services is just up the beach, camouflaged by a thick forest of leafy grey trees.

They're a weird crowd, these Salarians. Moved all the way out here to "escape the inevitable event horizon of technological advancement." They chose this continent because it's perfect for growing some disgusting algae crap native to their home planet. Apparently it went extinct a couple of thousand years ago when the Salarians started messing with Sur'Kesh's atmo. Almost killed off their entire species at the same time. Now the algae is sacred.

Or something. Drack hadn't really been listening to the explanation. The green gloop they made him try tasted like hot varren shit and that's most of what he remembers.

When Drack makes it back to the village, their leader, Anoleis, is waiting for him. The wispy Salarian is completely naked, like everyone else who lives here, swaying serenely from one foot to the other. His dark grey skin and lack of purposeful movement makes him almost disappear into the trees. 

"Welcome back, Brother Nakmor," he greets, enunciating every word. "Have the rylkor been dealt with?"

"They're dead, yeah."

"Good. Good. Then I will bring you to our engineer." He leads Drack through the village, where Salarians glide between their mud huts and strings of drying algae. _Gugh!_ Too bad it’s not his nose that’s broken!

Drack has to hunch over to fit inside the hut Anoleis brings him to, where another nude Salarian stands at the back, copper hands clutching a beat-up tool kit.

"This is Vaneel," Anoleis introduces. "She will fix your shoulder."

Vaneel smiles and motions for Drack to sit down on a wooden bench in front of her. She begins unpacking the kit— lining up drills and bolts and a spark-scarred welding rod beside him. Watching those mean-looking things come out, Drack starts second-guessing his choice of payment for this job.

The cybernetics in Drack's arms are old Salarian tech— still working okay after two centuries, but the left one seizes up sometimes. Ever since Meridian.

When he first lost his arms, he'd refused to have Salarian-anything put in—they'd already pumped enough poison into his veins, why invite more of their fucked up experiments? But his body kept rejecting all of the other implants they tried and he sure as hell wasn't gonna die without a shotgun in his hand. So eventually he caved and his new arms worked better than the old ones, in the end. 

Strong enough to fire a shotgun, definitely, and delicate enough to carry Kesh.

"I was an Atlas engineer in the Milky Way." Vaneel tells him, measured breaths whistling through her nostrils. "Before I gave up my practice to join the Faithful."

"Uh-huh," Drack grunts. "Isn't fixing me against your religion or something?"

"To deny any living creature its most sacred decay. Yes, that would be heretical." The Salarian starts unclipping Drack's shoulder plates. "But your body has already been modified. So Anoleis made an exception."

 _And it's a lot cheaper to fix up my arm than pay what I usually charge._ "You know what you're doing?" he asks. "I'm no Atlas."

"The principles are the same. When you are ready, I will numb the arm."

Drack pulls up his omni-tool and taps into a preset that converts unread emails into audio. His eyes aren’t what they used to be and those ‘tool screens are too damn tiny. "Alright, do it," he says, as the first message starts playing in robo-tones in his ear.

"From… Nakmor Kesh. Subject… no subject. I found the bottle of ryncol you hid behind the plant pot in my office. I hope it was you, anyway, because I drank it all… End of message."

Drack snorts. He'd stolen that from a freighter bound for Techiix and forgotten about it. Good the evidence was gone.

Vaneel switches to a pair of heavy pliers and moves out of view behind him. The dull pulling sensation that follows sets Drack's teeth on edge. He half-listens to a few more emails from Kesh (and one very rambly one from Vorn that he wishes he could skip, but he can't move his arms to tap the buttons).

"From… Reyes Vidal. Subject… This is about Scott so open it."

Well, that's got his attention.

"Drack. Scott was badly injured and needs your help. He plans on taking a shuttle to Havarl. The details can wait. Will you go with him? He leaves tomorrow morning. I know you're on Korcosa. You can be Port-side by dawn if you leave soon… End of messages."

Drack's never liked Reyes much. He's an ambitious prick. A politician. And he winks too much. But Drack can’t ignore an email like that about a member of his krantt.

The sun is just starting to set outside the hut. It'll be close, but he could get his junker of a shuttle to Kadara Port in nine hours if he leaves enough heavy supplies behind.

Luckily the Salarian works fast. She finishes the shoulder repair in under an hour, and Drack's grudgingly impressed when he's able to wiggle his wrist again without any popping. 

He leaves the village quickly after that—hoping to avoid another algae sampling and doomsday lecture—and mourns the three crates of incendiary ammo that he has to push out the back hatch of his shuttle. He doesn't even have time to bury them.

Maybe he can sell their location to another merc for half profits.

—

 _To: Reyes Vidal  
_ _From: Nakmor Drack_

_On my way._

_This better not be a fucking trick._

—

It's not a trick.

Drack waits for them at the Kadara Port docks, enjoying the wide berth the humans give him despite the busy morning traffic. He's picking his teeth with a sharpened Kett finger bone (boy, does he miss those assholes!) when he spots them. 

Scott looks like he's been smoked out by a Remnant purge and then tossed down a gravity well for good measure. He's making a good show of not limping around, but Drack's seen that kid move enough times to know when he's been hurt bad. Maneuvering carefully around stiff knees. Going slow to avoid getting jostled by the crowd. Vidal's walking beside him, hand half-cocked toward Scott's elbow, like the guy's gonna collapse any second. _Pah!_

But Scott doesn't seem to notice, giving Drack a big, dopey smile as they get closer. All fleshy cheeks and blunt teeth. Drack squints at him, always a bit weirded out when he sees Scott out of armor. Was it really this skinny pink squid that killed five fiends on a dare? Humans are something else.

"You look like shit, kid," Drack barks. "But I like the haircut. Always thought human manes were stupid." He side-eyes Reyes. "No offense."

Vidal shoots him an irritated look and runs a hand through the mop on his head. “Thank you for coming, Drack,” he says mildly.

Scott’s grin just gets wider. He leans forward to accept Drack’s outstretched arm and they grip one another tightly.

“I’m glad you agreed to this,” Scott says. “But you know, it’s not an emergency. If you have other stuff…” He trails off.

Behind him, Reyes scowls across the docks, lips pursed.

“Nah. You’re saving me from doing some pretty bad shit with my latest paycheck.” 

Scott laughs. “I can live with that. You sure you’re not too old for such a long trip?”

Drack shoves him away with a chuckle. Ryder doesn’t stumble as hard as Drack expects him to, so at least the kid’s not completely gelatinous yet. “You’re lucky I’m not any younger,” he warns. “Or I’d knock you out for that.” 

Scott’s never been big on pointless human pleasantries and Drack’s grateful when that seems to conclude their hellos. Drack shoulders his pack of supplies and looks around. “Which one’s ours?”

Reyes guides them down the skyway to Bay 6, where a black Starship-class shuttle sits waiting for them. The entry and exit scarring around her long, dipped nose indicate a few years of service, but the titanium exterior shines as though she were assembled yesterday. Somebody must love her a lot to keep her in such pointlessly pristine shape.

Reyes’ omni-tool lights up as they approach and the ship rumbles to life. He pats her flank, rubbing an open palm over the purring metal as though communing with some kind of wild animal. His gaze goes oddly blank, staring across the rows and rows of ships like he’s facing down a hundred yards of abandoned battlefield.

It makes Drack antsy. “You gonna open her up, boy, or just keep strokin’ her?”

Reyes doesn’t even blink, but Scott does something on his ‘tool and the ship’s ramp shudders into motion, gliding slowly to the ground. Vidal snaps out of it when the edge of the gangway hits the concrete with a loud clang.

Drack isn’t very good at reading human emotions, so he isn’t sure what to make of Reyes’ expression when he turns to look at Scott. Murderous, maybe. But that can’t be right, because Scott’s getting right up into his personal space and Reyes isn’t pushing him away. He’s pulling Scott even closer, hands cupping his face, still kind of glaring at him, and they’re whispering stuff to each other, heads bowed low.

Whatever. Drack can take a hint. He leaves them to it, hiking up the ramp and into the hold. 

 _Damn._ It's big for a shuttle, with room for five or six humans, easy, even with the big, random cryopod taking up half the loading zone. Drack can stand up straight and move around without hitting anything, which is a lot better than the piece of shit he’s been flying in for the last eighteen months. 

He pokes around a bit while he’s waiting for Scott. The cargo hold has a bunch of dextro-levo food packs stocked and a human-shaped exercise machine. He cackles when he gets a good look at the cockpit, which has thick, wall-to-wall carpeting and a leather pilot’s seat. There's even a sealed off partition next to the cockpit with a proper bed and desk. A mostly-full bottle of whiskey pokes out from under the sheets.

 _Fucking King of Kadara._ He’s tempted to send some quick shots to Vetra. She’d make the funny clicking noise that usually means she’s about to “redistribute some wealth.”

But, Drack supposes, all of Vidal’s stuff belongs to Scott now, too. Isn’t that the way humans do it? Maybe he’ll share some photos of the trip to the Tempest group chat. The channel's been quiet for a while, and then if Vetra decides to steal some of Reyes’ things, it won’t be on him.

When Scott finally comes on board—the ramp sealing shut behind him with a hiss and a click—he looks a little taller, shoulders set in a straight line. Drack doesn’t need to squint to see the Pathfinder this time. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Ryder says, striding over to the shuttle’s controls.

Drack throws his pack down next to the pod. It’s as comfortable a spot as any. “Aye aye,” he replies.

 

**Day one**

Drack doesn’t push it, and it only takes fifteen minutes once they’ve cleared Kadaran airspace for Ryder to spill his tender guts about what the hell they’re even doing out here. The Asari-Angaran hybrid is a bit of a shock—and Drack has to bite back a joke about Ryder getting knocked on his ass by a baby—but overall the situation seems pretty tame by their standards.

“And she can’t zap us from in there?” Drack can’t help glancing over to make sure the cryopod is still on the other end of the ship.

“No,” SAM says from the shuttle’s console. 

“I have all of her mother’s notes from the site,” Scott tells him, waving to a box of papers on the floor of the cockpit. “Hopefully it’ll tell us what she was really doing on Havarl, and why it’s spooked Addison so much.”

Drack growls. “Won’t be anything good if the Nexus is involved.”

Scott nods stiffly and stares out the simulated windows. 

 _Hell, how old is the little squid, anyway?_ _Can’t be a day over two hundred!_ Too young and strong to be looking at the universe like the dark’s pulling him into something hopeless.

When Drack was that age, he was getting ready to march with his mother's krantt in the Great Rebellion. High off of his successes in the arena and his Rite of Passage on Tuchanka. He charged into that first battle on Lusia without understanding—thinking evil was a spitting Thresher Maw. An enemy without a face. He was well over a thousand by the time he got a fucking clue.

Scott takes Drack over to the cryopod later that night. A few taps from his omni-tool and the fogged window clears, revealing a baby’s bright blue face inside. She's lumpy and her eyes are closed, so he can’t see the Angaran in her. But damn, she’s beautiful.

She reminds him of Kesh, lying quiet and still in his brand new arms. And of his youngest brothers Garka and Vork, who died just three days after being born. A tragedy before they understood the genophage, and even dead babies were redefined as miracles.

Drack claps Scott on the shoulder. “Go get some sleep, kid.”

 

**Day two**

Scott’s really trying, and it’s getting hard to watch. He’s panting and sweating in the cargo hold, flinging his arms this way and that, repeating the same sequences over and over again. Drack recognizes a few of them as biotic forms, but nothing happens when he finishes them. And by the looks of it, it’s driving the kid crazy.

After a couple of hours, he finally collapses against the wall of the shuttle. Chest heaving. 

Drack regards him over the shotgun he’s been pretending to clean for the last half hour. “You weren’t kidding when you said she took out your biotics.”

Scott grabs a bottle of water off the floor and chugs it down. “Nope.”

“I never liked any of that biotic shit," Drack ventures. "You always seemed more Krogan than Asari to me, anyway. Not like Cora, she's got that cold huntress blood in her."

Scott shrugs. “Got an extra Krogan shell I can put on?”

“Don’t be a lardass. You can still shoot, can’t you?” Drack tosses the shotgun across the hold and Scott catches it easily.

He grumbles. “Sure, but most of my combat training is in offensive biotics.” He brings the gun up to eye level and peers down her sights. “My dad was the bare-knuckle soldier.”

“Pathfinder,” SAM pipes up. “If you allow me to reconfigure your body’s hormone levels, you could obtain a degree of combat fitness equivalent to your father’s in a matter of days.”

Scott lowers the gun, dangling it loosely towards the ground. “You’d have to stop repairing the spinal injury though, right?”

“Yes. Temporarily.”

Something akin to grief flashes over Scott’s face before he hardens over it, staring at the girl's pod. “Guess it's that or stay useless. Go ahead, SAM.”

“Done, Pathfinder.”

Drack doesn’t know how any of this AI shit works, so he just stares at Scott awkwardly in the ensuing silence. He wishes he hadn’t thrown his only distraction across the room. He’s starting to see why Reyes thought he’d be a good fit for this babysitting job. He’s a Krogan, and Ryder’s part of his krantt. If any other Krogan sees how weak Ryder's become, then Drack might as well give up his Clan rites on the spot.

Scott’s stomach lets out a long, angry growl and he clutches it, wincing. “Wow. I feel like I could eat an elephant.”

_Whatever the hell that is._

Drack watches as Scott riffles through the food bin until he locates a box of Blasto’s, tearing into it immediately. He shovels a dry handful of puff balls straight into his mouth and moans, crumbs falling everywhere, sticking to his sweaty shirt.

They have so much work to do.

 

 **Day three**  

Scott’s sitting silently at his desk, pouring over pages and pages of the Asari’s messy, handwritten notes. He keeps picking them up and rotating them as though he isn’t sure which way the script is supposed to be read, which doesn’t bode well for his plan to solve any big mysteries.

Drack’s surprised Ryder’s still awake, let alone puzzling over some cryptic nonsense. After Drack ran him through drills for three hours this morning and most of yesterday, all Scott did was complain about how hungry he was and scarf down two uncooked protein packs. Other than that, it was as though the training hadn’t even happened.

But Drack isn’t gonna let his friend overdo it, no matter how unfazed he looks. Scott always had a weird habit of completely ignoring serious injuries until they’d made it out to safety. Drack used to think it was because Ryder’s a tough son of a bitch. Now he thinks it might have more to do with SAM messing around with the kid’s brain.

The thought makes him feel conflicted and grouchy, so he goes to the cockpit to watch their next slingshot over Dubracci, midway between Kadara and Havarl. They’re in the same system as Elaaden, and he rotates the window display until he spots her; a warm ball of light half-hidden behind her parent planet.

Most days Drack doesn’t miss Morlakh and Aralakh, the sun and moon of old Tuchanka. Those were his mother’s weeping gods, not his, and their lore died out along with most of her generation during the Rebellion.

What few details he can remember from her stories are full of bloodlust and war. Every day, the sun would rise in triumph over the moon, and every night the moon would do the same. Their eternal war left the vast space between them dark and dead—the interludes between each battle never lasted long enough for new life to grow. Bitter victories— just like Tuchanka. When Drack left the homeworld for good, there’d been nothing left but the stumps of headless statues and endless burning pit fires, like stars before each moonrise.

New Tuchanka doesn’t have any moons. Elaaden orbits another planet, which in turn revolves around an even bigger gas giant. Their massive bodies fill the sky all year long, from horizon to zenith, close enough to pick out individual dust storms, round like constant, watchful eyes.

Vorn’s always bothering him to write some of those old stories down, but he’s no Shaman. And maybe it’d be good for Kesh’s kids to grow up without them. Without lusty gods and wastelands to aspire to.

Scott gets up from the desk to stretch, then disappears into the cargo hold for a while. When he comes back he’s sweaty and, finally, drooping a bit. He says goodnight and goes to bed, leaving Drack alone with the screens. 

Dubracci’s cold horizon grows and grows, tempting them into orbit, close enough to see clouds and cresting waves of black iodine before they finally pull free and hurtle out of the system.

 

**Day four**

“Hey Ryder, is it true they’re naming that one after you?”

Scott doesn't even look up, scowling and panting through another hundred pushups. “Don’t remind me.”

Habitat 7 looms in the distance. They can't get close to any of the planets here, navigating carefully through dense rivers of Scourge. They saved most of their fuel for this leg of the trip, SAM piloting them through tight turns and dives with short bursts of the ship's thrusters.

Drack never thought he'd miss seeing a Salarian at the helm, but each sudden lurch makes him miss the Tempest's neurotic pilot more and more. _Least Kallo drove with some style._

"One… eighty," Scott grinds out, teeth clenched as he forces himself to sit up one last time before collapsing onto the cold floor.

SAM pitches them sharply to the left, sending a few medigel canisters rolling across the floor. The gravity module flashes angrily from the cockpit, fighting to keep up with the AI's inhuman speed.

Drack doesn't need to sleep more than a few hours every three or four days, but he's kind of wishing he were unconscious for this. Or really drunk.

"You wanna play a round of Fire-Breathing Thresher Maws?" Drack asks the sweaty lump on the floor.

Scott looks up at him, surprised. "You brought a board with you?"

"Vetra found me a travel-size set a few years ago. You remember how to play?"

Scott laughs. "Definitely!" He jumps up, exhaustion evaporating. "I'll go get the booze."

When he returns, he's got a piece of Angaran pie stuffed in his mouth and two empty glasses. He's got that whisky bottle from the bedroom under his arm and it's a lot emptier than when Drack saw it three days ago. Scott pours them both a modest amount and they set to work preparing the pieces.

It's close, but Drack wins four times to Scott's one. The kid always swaps his careful opening strategy for a more vicious approach at around the same point in the game.

They're almost out of whiskey. And they only set the carpet on fire once!

"That's a really stupid design choice," Drack mumbles.

"Don't… don't look at me. This is Reyes' baby."

"You know why people don't look at you?" Drack leans over and punches Ryder in the arm. "No clan markings! You have a planet named after you but no family?" Drack shakes his head. He can't even believe it!

Scott groans. "They shouldn't have called it Ryder One. That's so lame. At least wait until I'm dead."

"Look, why don't you start easy." Drack's pretty sure getting a tattoo will solve a lot of the kid's confidence issues. "I know a guy with an Asari dancer on his arm. He can move her ass around every time he flexes." _Didn't save him from that Turian cruiser, though._ "Well, _knew_ a guy."

Scott squints at him. "You remember I'm married to a human man, right?"

"Who cares!" Drack can't believe it! Reyes again! "If you were Krogan, a famous warrior like you— you'd have a dozen mates!"

Ryder snickers. He pours the rest of the whiskey into their glasses, spilling a few drops.

"I think… one mate's more than enough for me. You know?" He slurs through the last bit. "How could I… love anyone else _this much_?"

 _Kak!_ He should know better than to get into conversations like this with such a young pup. And this one! They'd all known Ryder was a lost cause after that first trip to Kadara. Coming back to the Tempest all hot and bothered, barely listening to anyone for days.

He’d taken his sweet time admitting it to the crew though. They even started a betting pool on when Scott would drum up the courage to tell them. Vetra won after four months—24 credits to 500—on a guess that Jaal would bring it up in some awkward way before Scott even had the chance. Sure enough, it was during a meeting with all four Pathfinders that Jaal asked politely why Scott was wearing his shirt inside out and a pair of Reyes’ pants, and Avitus had to close the call for a while, he was laughing so hard at Scott's face.

Then Reyes killed Sloan in cold blood and Ryder stood by him anyway. So they all had to stop kidding around with that shit.

Well, Cora still managed to voice her concerns a few times, but she'd never been very good at leaving things alone.

Drack looks over at Scott and finds him slumped over the board, fast asleep. He pulls the kid to his feet and half drags him over to Vidal’s private compartment, where he leaves his small friend curled up on the bed. He goes to clean up their game and the empty bottle off the floor, swaying with the ship.

 

**Day five**

They're out of the Scourge zone and crossing Pfeiffer by the time Scott drags himself out of his room the next day. He looks lumpier than usual and a bit sticky, eyes barely opening as he rustles uncoordinated hands through their ration bins.

His sullen mood keeps Drack from saying anything, and they go about their business in silence. Drack roots through Reyes' spare ammo boxes in the back while Scott chews his food and stares at the wall.

After a while, Scott pulls up his omni-tool and dials out. Reyes' head appears on his screen a second later, smiling warmly.  

The volume is too low for Drack to pick up his greeting, but it must be something pretty good because Scott's whole body relaxes into his chair. They speak quietly for a while, Scott laughing breathlessly a few times, then he moves the call into his room and shuts the door.

Drack feels restless all of a sudden. The dull humming of the ship getting louder from all directions. He calls Lexi.

“Hello there.” Her balmy voice would be enough, but she's accepted his video request too. She’s in a lab somewhere, head bowed over something off-camera. “I hear you’re coming to join me and Scott on Havarl.” She peeks over at him, eyes twinkling.

“You’re flying in from Eos?”

“I’m here already.” She pans the camera around for him to see more of the lab. A couple of Angara are working at other stations behind her, and the tree outside her window is a lush purple. “Scott sent me his files on the girl,” she says. “It’s fascinating, but I don’t know where to begin. This shouldn’t be possible, Asari use parthenogenesis to procreate. There is no second set of DNA, only a slight modification to the Asari genetic code. What does this mean for our species? Is this the next stage of our evolution? Does it require a transfer of specific memories, a code of the Jaardan?”

Lexi rambles on, asking questions and theorizing the answers. He isn’t really listening to the specifics after a while, just grunting every few minutes to show he’s still connected. Her voice cools him right down and he sits perfectly still. Back against the wall, eyes closed. Eventually, they settle into silence, mostly, only breaking the connection when Lexi tells him she's about to fall asleep.

 

**Day six**

Scott wanders into the cargo bay in the middle of the night cycle. He’s holding a single sheet of the Asari’s notes out in front of him as though it’s a magnificent treasure.

“I finally found her name,” Scott says, running a reverent hand over the pod. He leans forward and whispers: “Hello, Adina.”

 

**Day seven**

They’re refuelling at an Angaran pit station orbiting Yednoeth, a gas giant on the outskirts of the Feroang system. Havarl is just a few hours away on the other side of the red sun. It’s invisible to them with all the solar radiation getting in the way, but Drack feels it calling out to him. Grabbing him by his last real heart and lighting him on fire.

He’s getting pretty damn testy in this tiny shit box. A shuttle this size might be fine for humans, but a Krogan needs a planet. Or at least a very big station with enough space to run around. Even his calls to Lexi aren’t doing him much good anymore, his blood boiling within minutes of them hanging up.

If he were a thousand years younger, this shuttle would be fucking toast. Torn apart from the inside. But Drack's not a hot-headed pup anymore, so he paces and chews and pushes Ryder through his exercises until the kid’s dry heaving into a bucket.

 

**Day eight**

_Maybe these leather seats aren’t all bad_.

Drack’s watching their final approach toward Havarl’s landing zone with his chair reclined all the way back. SAM’s flying them at a dizzyingly straight decline, breaking through the thick atmo with only a few shudders across the bow. 

Havarl is luminous beneath them, bright with twinkling bioluminescence and busy Remnant machines, passing too quickly to be given much thought. The whole planet breathes and buzzes with life. 

Scott’s snoring in the chair next to him, head tilted back and mouth wide open. Drack considers waking him up to see the show but decides against it. He tongues at his last wad of korkro root, tucked under his top lip for safe-keeping. He's an old Krogan. He knows how to make the good shit last.


	7. Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Who's in charge?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful readers: Happy Holidays. If you're in a cold place like me, I hope this update keeps you toasty~
> 
> I assume we all signed up for a certain degree of kink with this pairing. But let me know if this chapter warrants a special tag. Comments are warmly appreciated, as always.

_It's always worse when Meifeng is there. He can hear her screaming at him over the sirens wailing through the cockpit._

_"Goddamnit Reyes, pull the fuck up!”_

_His hands are gripped tight over the fighter’s controls. Tighter than necessary. He flies them fast and low over the burning carcass of the Batarian city. Close enough to see the crippled buildings and mangled bodies._

_He doesn’t pull up. If he does then he won't find them. He won't see the shutes. He won't know for sure._

_Static cracks through his helmet. “Anubis, return to formation.”_

_He leans on the accelerator. Follows the stripe of shattered trees beyond the city to the tower of brown smoke dead ahead._

_“Repeat, return to formation or you will be fired upon."_

_Meifeng kicks the back of his seat. Hard. "They're dead, asshole! We saw it! Pull up before they shoot us down!”_

_No parachutes in the branches but he’s low enough to scan the ground. Any second now—_

_A new alarm joins the others. Louder, single-tone. Incoming projectile. He doesn’t need to see the ladar screen to know it's coming from the Cairo. Their mothership loiters in the upper atmosphere, conducting the fighters from afar. It’ll take two minutes for her missiles to reach them. A perfect curve between two dots; one will wink out when the line connects._

_“Command, this is Anubis!” Meifang’s shouting, hysterical. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”_

_He reaches the crash site and slows; hovers just outside the smoke._

_This part is always the same._

_The fighter’s in pieces. Wings shorn off, nose folded in on itself like a spent beer can. Blue flames lick the charred surface, flaring outward from her wheezing reactor. The falcon they'd painted on her tail together glows, incandescent; writhing as its outstretched talons boil away._

_He sees them through the ribs of twisted metal, still strapped into their seats. Two pillars of raging fire._

Reyes jerks backwards.

“Alert. Autopilot will disengage in... Three. Minutes. Alert.”

He doesn’t move. He stares down at the dashboard in front of him, taking stock. No targeting module within easy reach. No stim-needle in the armrest. No voices but the pleasant autopilot VI.

He scrubs at his face, frustrated even though he knows—really, _really_ knows—that it’s pointless to dwell on these dreams. They’ve been coming to him more frequently lately; moments from those five endless days in the Verge, his first real posting at eighteen years old. Target-locking on no sleep, firing at anything that moved. Pirates and civilians and children—they all looked the same from the cockpit, moving too fast to spot the difference or witness the results. Not that it mattered to the people in charge at the time, or to anyone anymore. It all happened twenty years ago.

 _No, six and a half centuries ago_ , he corrects. Torfan might have slid into another moon by now, or collapsed into the sun. Or maybe some new species is digging the Falcon’s tail out of the mud, inspecting the charred artwork, finding all the bodies. Realizing that their planet is a tomb.

He shakes it off. 

Bakker. That’s where he is now. The gas giant occupies two-thirds of his view screen; the perfect ivory curve of her growing horizon is dotted with black mining rigs dangling their shafts deep into her undulating surface, like jellyfish floating over a thick froth of creamy sea foam.

“Alert. Autopilot disengaging.”

Reyes hardly notices taking the controls. The main loading station over Bakker, floating at the center of the constellation of rigs, has no automated docking procedure. He pilots the shuttle manually through the maze of shafts into the bay he reserved in advance, in a secluded corner close to Keema’s white Angaran vessel.

While he’s waiting for the hatch to pressurize, he watches a rig to his right begin to pull one of it's long, dark trunks up and out of the clouds. The precious Helium-3 they gather near the surface stays under immense pressure as it's sucked up through the hollow tubes, like juice through a straw, then supercooled inside the isolated depots for transportation to the main station. Only the areas richest in Helium-3 (toxic, highly reactive) are worth the incredible danger, and miners need to steer the rigs to new locations every two or three days.

He’s got a bad crick in his neck from sleeping in his seat—he should have at least brought a bed roll, but there hadn’t been time. He’d gone straight to this ship after seeing Scott off with Drack, and realized to his dismay that this ship hadn't been stocked properly for several years.

He’ll be paying for that in the days to come. The station was built as an interchangeable warehouse, completely barren except for the life support systems. Everyone sleeps and lives in their own ships, sealed to the sides of the station like barnacles.

The shuttle doors hiss open. Keema’s waiting for him on the other side, looking edgy and unmoored without a cigar burning in her hand. The air is too thin and oxygen-rich to risk it. He feels a quick stab of guilt and gratitude for making her stay the extra days.

A Turian female in red and black armor stands next to her. He recognizes her as one of the heads of the three gangs that have been operating the rigs for the better part of the last decade. _Crastus Feno_. Her left hand rests lightly over a shock whip coiled at her waist.

“We have a problem,” Keema says, tone clipped. There will be no other greetings, so he simply gives Feno a nod and focuses on his partner.

“Another one?” Reyes wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t normally enjoy the smell of Keema’s Angaran hash, but it would be a lot better than the stink of boiled radish, hot iron, and sweat that permeates the station.

“Daroth’s crew decamped for Peter Lyle’s,” says Feno. Her voice rasps over the words like velcro on canvas.

“And?” Peter Lyle and Tona Daroth were the heads of the other two gangs last time Reyes was here. Two gangs should be easier to deal with than three. Less to leverage but fewer people to bribe, if necessary.

“They’re on strike,” Keema spits, pure venom.

Reyes stops short. They’re in a relatively secluded part of the station, but now that he listens, he can hear the distinct lack of shouting, honking, and banging from the loading bays. The sound had been deafening on his last trip.

"Six of the eleven rigs are on lockdown,” Keema continues.

“Since when?”

“Twelve hours,” she snarls. “Lyle came to me demanding double pay for his crew last week and I refused. It wasn’t until Daroth’s group joined his that he had the _harnuüt_ to take his loaders completely offline. We can't get them running again without his access codes."

Reyes does the math in his head. It’s a wild estimate, probably wrong, but even with a very generous margin for error, this could set them back weeks. And they barely had enough time with all eleven rigs functioning at full capacity. Three months from now the Quarians will be in Heleus, syncing their SAM with the Nexus, sharing files, exposing every last ‘exile’. And the Initiative will have the Ark on ladar long before then. His ruse will end in disaster. He _must_ get to the ship while it’s still in dark space, out of range.

_Whatever it takes._

“Is that all he wants?” Reyes asks.

Keema glares at him. “ _All_ he wants? Twice the money for the work they don’t even do half the time? I told you we should have brought in our own.”

Reyes swats that away and turns to Feno. Her presence is less of a mystery now— Keema must be shoring up their only remaining ally for a retaliation. “Are your people still working?”

"My men don't strike, sir," Feno replies, mandibles clicking in contempt. "If they’re awake, they’re working. And they know where starting trouble gets them." She gestures to the empty docking bay next to Reyes’ ship; nothing but dark vacuum through the heavy plastic viewports.

“Good,” he says. The severity of her methods holds no appeal, but Reyes has been dealing with bosses like Feno all his life. “Do you have any weapons on board?” He makes his expression subtly hopeful. If she thinks he’s considering a violent solution; one in which her loyalty will be rewarded, she’ll be less likely to take advantage of their weakened position. Might as well build on what Keema’s probably already promised.

Feno regards him for a moment. “No ballistic arms,” she says slowly. “For safety reasons. But we do have… other devices.” She taps the whip.

Reyes nods curtly. “Stay alert and say nothing. I’ll go speak with Peter Lyle.”

“Alone?” Feno asks. “You should bring some of my crew for protection." And with a hint of derision: "This isn’t Kadara, sir, not everyone here plays by the rules.”

Reyes shakes his head, hiding a smile. “I think I can manage.”

***

Lyle isn’t a hard man to find. He must have heard about Reyes’ arrival, because he’s gathered a large group of workers around the bay where his shuttle is docked on the other side of the station, four men deep in some places. Their clothes are thin and uniformly stained with accumulated sweat and grease, with many sleeves and pant legs tied short over missing limbs. Their faces are gaunt and pink from radiation burn. They watch him.

Reyes is reminded of the miners he grew up with on Hades V. Big, bulky men with a sort of lazy hostility built into their posture. When he was little they ignored him, mostly, until he started getting taller, rising nearly to eye level. Then avoidance became an artform. 

He catches himself falling into an old habit as he gets closer to the crowd—a trick that used to make him invisible to the old drunks who liked to lay a beating between drinking and making lewd jokes about his mother. His shoulders relax, back straight, expression slipping into total passivity. He lets his gaze slide over their faces, never meeting their eyes; impartial, unobtrusive, not landing on anyone for very long. His breathing slows to an almost sleepy rhythm.

Nothing happens. They part as he approaches, and it occurs to Reyes not to be too impressed by the number of people here. If Lyle's keeping all of the rigs under his control locked down, then it's not like these workers have anywhere else to be. Jerking off in a cold shuttle only gets you so much mileage against boredom.

He comes upon Lyle rather suddenly, sitting in a plastic seat—torn straight out of a passenger vessel by the look of its struts—surrounded by a ring of silent onlookers.

They meet each other’s eyes. Peter is young, twenty-seven maybe, though his skin bares the same ancient, beaten-leather quality as the workers twice his age. He’s stocky and muscular, with broad shoulders, and his face is strikingly severe even when neutral, as it is now, sizing Reyes up.

"Welcome back to Bakkah, Mr. Vidal," he greets. He speaks quietly, but Reyes knows his words can be heard clearly throughout the crowd. A surly man advances into the circle carrying a second chair and places it in front of Reyes.

He takes it, sitting in one smooth motion. “Please, call me Reyes,” he says easily. The surly man doesn’t move away, looming just out of view. Reyes ignores him.

“Reyes,” Lyle agrees. “Did the Angaran tell you why we’re here?”

“She gave me an idea. But I’d rather hear it from you.”

Peter leans forward, elbows on his knees. “ _Sababa_ ,” he starts. “It’s simple. This is dangerous work, and we’re the only ones willing to do it.” He gestures to the surly man, who steps forward into view. “See Cham here? He got caught in a flare last year, lost his sight for three months. Couldn’t work, couldn’t get a doctor out here. Would’ve starved if my crew hadn’t put some wages aside to see to his needs.” He pauses to look around the crowd with pride, then turns a challenging glare back to Reyes.

Reyes mirrors Peter’s posture, leaning forward sympathetically. Keema always plays bad cop, however unwittingly. It makes Reyes’ strategy less of a gamble at times like this. "I understand," he says earnestly. “You want a wage increase. What amount do you propose?”

The bluntless of the question takes Lyle by surprise, but he covers it quickly with a shake of his head. “Well,” he says carefully. “It’s not just a question of money.”

Reyes swallows his impatience. He needs to be nice now, not vulnerable. “Go on.”

“Did you know twelve miners died working a leaky shaft last month? Eighteen minutes before the venting was fixed."

Murmurs of anger and accusation ripple through the audience. Reyes is careful not to react to any of the voices, even the ones very nearby. He keeps his gaze steady on Peter's face. The younger man lets the discontent rumble on for a few seconds before holding up a hand for silence. It falls immediately.

"No,” Reyes says. “We didn’t own this station then."

“And now? That shaft never got fixed. Not enough vac suits for even half the men on board.”

More grumbles from the crowd. But an audience works both ways. “We’ll get enough vac suits for everyone,” Reyes says, raising his voice slightly, “but we can’t afford to halt production until they arrive.” A caveat, or the deal will be too good to accept. “In the meantime, if your men agree to return to work by tomorrow, I’ll double their pay.”

Lyle considers him. _Take it_ , Reyes urges. _It’s the best you’re going to get._ “I can't ask them to work without the suits,” Lyle decides at last. “And there are other necessities...” He trails off.

Reyes swears inwardly. He should have made Lyle work harder for the first offer. That was sloppy. Now they’re trapped in a longer game; it'll take at least a week for an order of vac suits to get here, and the list of other possible demands might reach all the way to his shuttle and back. 

They don’t have time for any of it. 

_This isn’t Kadara, sir, not everyone here plays by the rules._

And what rules did they have on Kadara that he didn't make himself? Reyes opens his omni-tool and sends Lyle his shuttle’s coordinates. It’s an innocent enough data package, and the man’s tool downloads it automatically. He won’t notice the program hidden within. No one ever does. One of SAM’s more nefarious inventions—a tether Reyes can tug once he’s back in his own quarters.

Reyes stands. “It seems we're at an impasse," he says briskly. "My offer for double pay stands until the morning. Talk it over with your crew and come find me when you're ready to negotiate." He walks over to shake Peter’s hand, keeping his grip firm and friendly. Peter frowns, no doubt sensing the shift in tone. Reyes fights back a grimace. _You should have done your homework before sitting down with me._ He’s never envied Scott’s galaxy-wide fame, but a little more recognition would certainly save him a lot of time every once in a while.

He turns on his heel and leaves before Lyle can say anything else. The crowd parts for him just as it did before, and this time he doesn't think twice about their size.

***

Scott had teased Reyes mercilessly when he’d had a carpet installed in the cockpit of his favorite ship, but it was worth every credit. Glaring at the cold metal floors of his shuttle on Bakker Station, he can’t believe he didn’t think to give the same treatment to all five of their personal ships.

 _Where am I supposed to sleep?_ he grouses. The passenger seats in the back can tilt back a few degrees, but they don't offer much padding. 

He could call Keema. She might have another bed roll, a nice one with thick lining and a built-in pillow. He yearns to do it, but the thought of asking her for another favor irks him too much. He needs to fix this problem with Lyle before they're back on equal footing, and even then he'll be dodging _I told you so's_ for an insufferably long time.

So he sets about building a little nest for himself out of a bundle of spare flight suits on the floor. It won't be the most uncomfortable place he's ever slept; not by a long shot. At least the shuttle doors have locks.

An hour later, he’s sitting in the pilot’s seat reading an email from Tate about the fallout with Addison (“Shipment of dextro-fertilizer being delayed for ‘inspection’. BS finding new heights.”) when he gets an incoming vidcall alert from Scott.

He accepts right away. A coil he hadn’t noticed snaring his gut loosens as Scott’s face fills his screen. Reyes recognizes the cargo hold of his own ship in the background and the box of Blasto’s he’d stocked himself on the table beside Scott’s elbow.

Scott has telltale puff around the eyes and lines of tension around his mouth. “Hello,” Reyes says, pitching his voice to a carefully low register.

The tightness in Scott’s face relaxes slightly. He gives a smile that’s half sweet, half wince. “That obvious, huh?”

Reyes smirks. “I have no idea what you mean.” He takes in the rest of what he can see of his husband. Is it the angle, or are his arms bigger? They must be; that ratty Conifex shirt hadn’t been so tight around his biceps a few days ago.

"I might have found that bottle of whiskey you had in the bedroom." Scott mutters darkly. "Drack helped me finish it," he adds, sounding sheepish.

“Did you have fun at least?” A bit of light teasing is called for; that bottle was almost full. “My ship is still in one piece—from what I can see.”

Scott laughs and groans. “Your baby is fine. Drack thinks I should get a tattoo.”

“Of course he does.” Reyes rolls his eyes. “What did he suggest? A shotgun? A pair of tits?”

“Close,” Scott whispers, flashing him a coy smile. Even in the throes of a hangover, Scott can still pull off flirtatious. Endearingly ham-fisted, but subtlety was never Scott’s forte. He winces again and rubs his temples. "Ow. Fuck."

Reyes thinks about the three other bottles of alcohol stashed on board the shuttle, all from his last trip to Aya. One sickeningly sweet Angaran liqueur—a gift from an ex-Roekaar sniper he’d helped relocate—and two experimental ciders from a brewing company he recently invested in. 

Reyes hadn't hidden them on purpose, but he's grateful now that they're at the bottom of some unmarked bin. He decides against telling Scott—his beautiful, compulsive, yawning husband—about their existence.

"Remember when I asked to borrow SAM for a bit of hacking the other day?" he asks instead.

Scott has his eyes closed, massaging his entire face like it's putty. “Mm-hm.”

“I need to get into someone’s tool. They already have the packet installed.”

“Is this it?” SAM breaks in, pulling Lyle’s omni-tool address and manufacturer info onto the screen, obscuring Scott’s half-listening expression.

“Yes,” Reyes says. “How long would it take to decrypt and clone the contents?”

A pause. “I am currently navigating the ship through rivers of Scourge and reconfiguring Scott’s entire endocrine system.” Another pause, perhaps for effect. “An hour.”

“Show off,” Scott mutters from behind the wall of code that starts running between them.

“Normally, this process would take minutes.”

Reyes frowns. "You're reconfiguring Scott's endo— what was that?"

"I am manipulating Scott's hormone levels in order to build significant muscle mass over a very short period of time."

That explanation—incredibly—only serves to replace Reyes' confusion with bone-deep wariness. "Scott?"

"It's alright," Scott says quickly. "We agreed I need to beef up if I won't have any biotics for a while."

"The process is safe," SAM adds. "I did it many times for Alec Ryder during our time together."

"Okay," Reyes huffs. "I trust you."

He can feel the power of Scott's massive eye roll from across the cluster.

SAM changes the subject. "I will alert you when the file is ready."

“Thank you, SAM,” Reyes replies. _For never asking any questions._ He’ll never quite understand why the AI doesn’t. Categorically never inquires. Maybe it’s because Scott made the conscious choice not to dig too deeply into Reyes’ business. He’d said as much after what happened with Sloan. Was the AI beholden to Scott’s willful ignorance, or just incurious by design?

If Scott ever decides to take a closer look—into his own complicity in Collective affairs, if nothing else—not much is stopping him from finding everything out about Reyes’ work. Most of what Reyes does is stored in some form or another in SAM’s massive memory core. He hasn’t been shy about using the AI to his frequent advantage. Maybe SAM doesn’t ask any questions because it's keeping a close enough eye on his activities already. Where Scott has faith that everything Reyes does is for their benefit, SAM could have relative certainty.

“You are welcome, Reyes. As always.”

Reyes watches the strings of code travel across his screen, too fast for human eyes to follow coherently. When Scott calls his name, voice soft, closing the window separating them, he's no longer in the shuttle’s cargo hold. He’s lying across Reyes' bed, in Reyes’ tiny bedroom, far enough away from the camera that his whole body is in view.

From this vantage point, the changes to Scott’s physique are more obvious, even in the dim light. His bare arms and legs are definitely thicker; toned muscles shifting prominently where there used to be only hints of easy, athletic strength. He moves up to lean against the headboard.

“Lost you there for a second,” he’s teasing. His hands are resting on his upper thighs, curving inward like a bow over his boxers, parting his legs ever so slightly. Enough to invite the suggestion. Reyes clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

"You have no idea how often I've thought about you in that room," he says roughly.

Scott's hands start crawling further between his legs. He bites his lip. "In your bed?"

"Yes."

"Doing what?" He runs one finger up the seam of his boxers.

"Whatever I say."

Scott breathes in sharply.

"Stop touching yourself," Reyes commands, voice low.

Scott lets out a little moan of protest, eyes closing briefly. His hands move away to grip the sheets on either side of his hips, and Reyes watches as the denial builds and ripples in shivers over his husband's body, cock visibly twitching. 

Reyes sits back and unbuttons his own pants, reaching in to stroke himself. He _has_ thought about this a lot. It's a recurring fantasy; leaving the cramped cockpit after a long day of monotonous flying to find Scott waiting for him in the adjacent bedroom. Naked and warm.

"Take off your shirt."

Scott pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. He starts rolling one nipple between his fingers before catching himself, returning the hand reluctantly to his side. Reyes wants so badly to reach through the screen and lick it into his mouth. To tease it until it hardens. _Patience,_ he chastises himself.

"What now?” Scott asks, voice thick. His naked chest and neck are flush with anticipation, on full display.

“Do that again,” Reyes tells him. “Play with your nipples.”

Scott does as he’s told, pinching and rubbing until the nubs are stiff and swollen. His cock is hard between his legs, straining under the neglect.

"Reyes, please," Scott pleads. He's thrusting minutely, unabashedly against the thin fabric of his boxers.

"Shit," Reyes chokes. "Let me see you."

Scott nearly tears his boxers in his haste to take them off, thick erection springing free. His fingers inch towards it.

"Not yet," Reyes orders huskily. "Turn around, on your knees."

Scott turns his side to the camera and spreads his bent knees as far as they'll go, hands up by his head. He grinds his hips down into the mattress, and heat swells through Reyes’ veins at the desperate sounds escaping Scott’s parted lips.

"God, look at you." Reyes whispers, tightening his grip on his erection, trying to rein himself in. “You're so sexy, _cariño_.”

"I want you inside me," Scott groans, canting forward again. "I want you so much."

"Open your mouth," Reyes croaks. He does. "Lick your fingers." Scott brings two fingers to his lips and swirls his tongue around them slowly, staring right into the camera. Reyes burns the image into his brain. His voice softens over a waver. "I wish it were me filling your mouth, giving you what you want."

Scott moans around them, bowing his head against the bed.

"Can you open yourself up? Nice and easy, the way I do it."

Scott releases his slick fingers and reaches behind himself. "Yes," he breathes. "I love the way you take care of me."

Reyes watches as Scott starts to fuck himself, rolling his leaking erection against the bed. "Slowly,” he says. “You feel so good. Are you imagining it's me?"

Scott nods, blushing from head to toe. Reyes' fist matches the pace of Scott's fingers, mesmerized, and soon they're both panting. Scott closes his eyes and gets a tight grip on the hair at the crown of his head, and Reyes knows he's imagining it's Reyes pulling his head back from above, exposing his neck. 

If Reyes were there, he would lean forward and wrap a gentle hand around Scott's throat, stroking his pulse. He'd deepen his thrusts and squeeze. Just a bit. Just enough.

Scott gasps, body stuttering as he comes onto Reyes' sheets, in Reyes' cabin, thinking about Reyes' dick deep inside of him.

 _Fuck._ Reyes tips over the edge.

When he comes back to himself, it’s to the familiar sound of Scott’s breathless post-coital laughter. The vidcall connection doesn’t do the sweet noise justice, but the echo of it still loosens the last tight knot hardening Reyes’ spine.

"Damn, I miss you,” Scott sighs, “but that was really fucking hot."

Reyes grabs a tissue from a box on his dashboard, hands shaking slightly. "I won't be able to relax in there ever again."

Scott grins at him. He kicks off the dirty top sheet and lies back down, arching his back into a theatrical yawn. Reyes hits record on his omni-tool a second too late.

"Wait," he says. "Do that again without yawning like a hippo."

Scott snickers, catching on easily. He makes a face at the camera, sticking out his tongue and going cross-eyed. "You don't want your spank bank to be realistic? Should've thought of making a sexy video ten minutes ago, now all you get is this." He blows his cheeks out like a puffer fish.

"Hmm. Careful, I might develop a weird fetish if this is all I get to work with."

The air rushes out of Scott's cheeks in a wuff. He picks up his omni-tool from where it must be sitting on the bin Reyes uses as a dresser and moves it beside him onto the bed. It’s an achingly familiar sight; Scott cut off at the shoulders like the bust of him they keep projected in the museum on Aya—a phantom of the real thing, untouchable.

"I should probably go train a bit,” Scott says lightly after a while. “Or Drack'll kick me out the airlock."

“Whatever he’s got you doing, it’s working.” Reyes admits. “You look a lot better.”

“Is… am I hallucinating? Is Reyes Vidal _praising_ Nakmor Drack?”

Reyes grumbles, “It was my idea for him to go along with you, wasn’t it?"

"Uh-huh."

"No trouble along the way?"

Scott taps his temple. "Only the Ryder-made ones," he says. The more overt signs of his hangover have left him, shed by the orgasm—a pretty fantastic cure that Scott has definitely used as an excuse to spend whole days in bed together in the past. Not that Reyes minds. "Thank you for your service."

Reyes laughs. "Anytime."

"I'll talk to you later?"

"Yes please."

The connection cuts on Scott's soft expression, and Reyes realizes he never stopped recording. He scrolls back to a quiet moment between the silly faces and Scott getting up to leave; a long minute of Scott barely keeping his eyes open, still blissed out around the edges.

Reyes closes his omni-tool and goes to lie flat on his back over the piled flight suits. Sleep finds him so quickly, he doesn't notice.

***

_The cockpit is silent this time. He's alone with his own ragged breathing bouncing through his helmet._

_The fighter slows over the crash site of its own accord and he wills his friends to climb out alive, to see him coming and wave their arms above their heads._

_He passes through the smoke and there_ is _someone outside the ship, digging through the wreckage. But it isn't his friends. It's Jien Garson, looking exactly as she does in every Initiative advertisement; pristine, excited._

_Static cracks over the comms._

_"Come start your next adventure!" she cries into his ear. "Andromeda awaits!"_

***

SAM's decrypted copy of Lyle's entire omni-tool is waiting on their shared server when he wakes up. Reyes goes straight for the access codes to the rigs and downloads them to his own tool. He won't do anything with them yet, if Lyle gets any advance warning, he'll just re-encrypt his device and change the passwords.

Now it's just a matter of waiting for the deadline he set during their meeting. He paces.

Peter doesn't disappoint. He shows up outside Reyes' shuttle an hour into the day cycle without the entourage. Clearly, their earlier exchange was friendly enough that he's unafraid, and he doesn't want an audience for whatever he wants to ask for in round two.

 _Smart,_ Reyes allows. _Too bad we're not doing that anymore._

He opens the airlock and Peter steps inside, eying the pile of clothes in the corner of the room. The modesty of the space is clearly not what he was expecting.

Reyes turns the pilot seat around and gestures to the passenger seat directly across from it. "Are you ready to make a deal?" he asks. Everyone gets a last chance to walk away, as a general rule.

Peter sits. "We know what we want."

"That's vague," Reyes says sharply. "Is your group forgoing my offer for double pay?"

Peter shifts uncomfortably. "Some of them wanted to accept those terms, but ultimately we all agreed. It's not enough. We need to go through each rig and make adjustments. And no one goes until we get those vac suits."

It's a question of months then, not days or weeks.

“You haven't left me with much choice here, Peter." It's the truth. "Is there anything I can offer to change your mind? Some incentive for your crew… or you personally?" He leaves that dangling.

Peter's expression sharpens. He's got a tall forehead, all the more expansive as his eyebrows furrow down into a scowl. "All I care about is the safety of my guys," he answers. "There's nothing you can offer that'll trump that."

Reyes isn't above admiring an adversary with strong convictions. It sits like a rock in his chest as he gets up. "I understand," he says. "I'll get my datapad and we'll figure out a timeline." He moves past Peter's chair, into the back of the shuttle.

“I'm glad you came, Vidal," Lyle says from his seat, looking out the viewport to Bakker's horizon. "We weren't getting very far with your associate, and my crew was getting antsy.”

“Keema can be a bit callous," Reyes sighs, "but she's usually right, and the stakes are so far beyond what you can imagine.”

Lyle hums. He doesn't notice Reyes coming up behind him until there's a palm forcing his head back against the seat. Reyes opens his throat in one clean cut above the adam's apple. 

He holds Lyle's head in place as he kicks and twitches and claws at Reyes' hands, mouth opening and closing in mute horror. His movements dull to twitching as the pool of blood at their feet grows beyond Reyes' shoes, a small river reaching the pile he slept on.

Then it's over. Reyes returns to his own seat and wipes his hands as best he can on a tissue. He calls Crastus Feno and tells her to come see him immediately. She's ducking into his shuttle in under a minute.

She sees the blood first, still inching slowly across the floor, then Lyle's body. Whatever she thinks about it, it doesn't show on her stern Turian features. She turns her gaze to Reyes, who returns it evenly, and says nothing.

"I'm giving you the access codes to Peter Lyle's rigs," he tells her. "You're to oversee his crew from now on. Anyone who returns to work within twelve hours will be given double pay, including your own men."

"Yes, sir."

"No more interruptions."

"No, sir."

Reyes swipes through his omni-tool and sends her the codes. He includes SAM's tether. Just in case. But she's hiding a smirk now, mandibles flexing, and he doesn't miss the way her fingers tighten over the coil at her waist.

_Whatever it takes._


End file.
